CHAP-BOOK  STORIES 


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STORIES 

the 


Chap-Book 

BEING  A  MISCELLANY 'OF 
Curious  and  interefling  Tales; 
Hiftories,  &c;   newly  com- 
pofed  by  MANY  CELE 
BRATED  WRITERS 
and  very  delight 
ful  to  read, 


CHICAGO. 

Printed  for  Herbert  S,  Stone  &  Company, 
and  are  to  be  fold  by  them  at  The 

Caxton Building  in  DcarbornStreet 


COPYRIGHT,     1896,    BY 
HERBERT  S.  STONE   &  CO 


To 


C.  R.  S.  R.  E.  P. 

THE  OTHER  Two 


M5S7431 


CONTENTS 

BATES,  KATHARINE  PAGE 

WHITHER  THOU  GOEST 5 

AN  IMPASSABLE  GULF 15 

BOYCE,  NEITH 

IN  A  GARDEN 29 

CHANNING,    GRACE    ELLERY 

ORESTE'S  PATRON 4-7 

CUMMINGS,  EDWARD 

THE  APPEAL  TO  ANNE 83 

DORSEY,  ANNA   VERNON 

THE  DEAD  OAK 95 

HOLLO  WAY,  JR.,  WILLIAM 

THE  MAKING  OF  MONSIEUR  LESCARBOT'S 

BALLAD I09 

LEFEVRE,  EDWIN 

ON  THE  BRINK J4i 

LELAND,  ANTHONY 

A  WOMAN'S  LIFE I57 

"WHEN  THE  KING  COMES  IN"     .     .     .     175 
POOL,  MARIA   LOUISE 

MANDANY'S  FOOL X95 

ROSS,  CLINTON 

THE  WAY  TO  CONSTANTINOPLE     ...     209 
THANET,  OCTAVE 

THE  OLD  PARTISAN 221 


Whither  Thou  Goest 

By 

Katharine  Bates 


Chap-Book  Stories 


WHITHER   THOU   GOEST 

'"THE  wind  stirred  the  tops  of  the  maple  trees  in 
*  the  Quinsby  front  yard,  and  the  old  man  who 
stood  on  the  steps,  watching  the  shadows  and  the 
moonlight,  sighed  as  he  heard  the  soft  rustling  sound. 
He  glanced  back  into  the  house,  through  the  hall, 
into  the  bedroom,  where  his  wife  was  lighting  a  can 
dle  preparatory  to  turning  down  the  bed. 

"I  reckon  I  '11  jest  step  down  there  a  mink,"  he 
whispered  to  himself,  and  hurriedly  but  softly  went 
down  the  steps.  Far  down  in  a  corner  of  the  yard, 
near  the  front  fence,  a  hammock  hung  between  two 
small  pin  oaks,  and  it  was  here  the  old  man  went, 
looking  back  uneasily  now  and  then,  as  if  he  ex 
pected  a  call  from  his  wife.  The  hammock  was  an 
old  one,  and  had  evidently  hung  there  all  summer, 
for  the  meshes  were  torn  and  all  the  gay  colors  had 

5 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 


Whither  Thou  Goest 


faded  to  a  dingy  gray.  It  tossed  lightly  in  the 
breeze  as  the  wind  grew  stronger,  and  the  old  man's 
hand  trembled  as  he  caught  at  its  swaying  folds. 

"Girls,"  he  whispered  softly,  "are  you  both 
here?  Are  you  pushing  the  swing,  Winnie?" 

A  sudden  flutter  went  over  the  leaves  of  a  lilac 
bush  near,  and  he  turned  quickly  to  it.  "  That  's 
Nan's  laugh — gigglin'  at  yore  old  pa  jest  as  usual, 
Nanny  girl  ? ' J 

"  Father,"  his  wife  called  from  the  porch,  "  you 
better  come  in." 

He  turned  and  hurried  back  to  her.  She  stood  on 
the  steps  with  the  candle  still  in  her  hand,  its  tiny 
flame  looking  almost  blue  in  the  moonlight. 

"  Mebbe  a  storm  is  comin'  up  and  you  '11  ketch 
cold,"  she  said  when  he  reached  her.  Her  voice 
was  stern,  but  the  look  in  her  gray  eyes  was  as  sad  as 
the  trembling  of  his  lips  when  he  said  to  her, 
"Ain't  it  jest  the  sorter  night  the  girls  use'  to  beg 
to  stay  out,  and  not  have  to  go  to  bed  yet  a 
while  ?  " 

"It's  a  mighty  pretty  night,"  she  answered. 
She  followed  him  into  their  room,  closing  the  hall 
door  after  her. 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


By  Katharine  Bates 


"Oh,  don't  shet  it,  Mira,  don't  !  It  seems  as  if 
you  was  shettin'  the  children  out.'* 

Mrs.  Quinsby  turned  to  him.  "Hiram,  I  must 
speak  out  to  you,"  she  said.  "I  don't  see  any 
more'n  you  why  the  Lord  thought  best  to  take  our 
girls,  our  two  good,  pretty  girls,  but  He  has  done  it, 
and  it  ain't  right  for  you  to  be  lettin'  yoreself  fancy 
you  hear  'em  'round  on  nights  like  this.  I  've  faith 
to  believe  if  we  can  keep  ourselves  outer  sin  for  the 
rest  of  our  days  we  shall  see  the  children  again  —  but 
not  here,  Hiram,  not  here  in  the  old  place." 

"  I  know  it  ain't  Nan  and  Winnie  sure  'nough," 
Hiram  answered  apologetically,  "but  these  nights 
make  me  think  of  'em  a  terrible  lot  —  and  the  leaves 
goin'  so  and  so  in  the  wind  does  sound  real  like  Nan's 
laugh.  Mira,  I  was  out  in  the  garden  while  you  was 
puttin'  the  dishes  away  and  strainin'  the  milk,  and 
jest  as  the  moon  came  out  and  the  wind  started  up  I 
heard  a  laugh  like  Nan's,  and  then  something  danced 
by  me  that  must  have  been  Winnie.  I  hurried 
down  the  path  after  it,  and  there  by  the  poppy  bed 
were  the  girls,  rompin'  jest  like  children  again, 
'most  grown  girls  that  they  are.  As  the  wind  came 
up  more  they  laughed  again,  not  so  soft  as  they  had 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


Whither  Thou  Goest 


been  doin',  but  a  real  burst  of  gay  laughin'  like  they 
use*  to  work  themselves  up  to,  and  then  they  ran 
towards  the  arbor  and  peeped  out  from  the  honey 
suckle,  and  Nan  called,  *  Here,  Pa,'  and  Winnie 
sorter  sang  out,  'Father,  Father/  in  her  soft  way." 

Mrs.  Quinsby  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and 
gave  him  a  little  shake.  Her  eyes  were  frightened, 
and  her  voice  came  quick  and  stern. 

"Hush,  Father,"  she  said.  "You  are  doin' 
yoreself  an  injury.  The  girls  are  in  heaven,  not 
here,  and  don't  you  let  go  yore  grip  on  yore  mind. 
Think  of  me,  Hiram  —  you  've  got  me  left,  and  I 
can't  stand  the  thought  of  the  lonesomeness  if  you 
let  your  senses  go.  You  and  me  have  been  married 
so  many  years,  Hiram,  we  could  n't  get  on  without 
each  other.  Why,  it  seems  to  me  the  good  Lord 
would  surely  let  me  get  foolish  too  —  mebbe  it  ain't 
fittin'  for  one  of  my  years  to  say  it,  but  I  'd  ruther, 
yes,  I  'd  rutber,  if  it  comes  down  to  choosin'  between 
my  senses  and  you,  Hiram  !  " 

The  far-away  look  disappeared  from  Hiram's  eyes. 
"I  was  jest  thinkin',  Mira,"  he  said  reassuringly. 
"  It  was  only  that  the  night  was  so  powerful  pretty. 
But  now  we  won't  talk  of  the  children  any  more." 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


By  Katharine  Bates 


Mrs.  Quinsby  drew  him  back  to  the  porch  again. 

"Don't  think  me  hard,  Father, "  she  said  entreat- 
ingly,  "but  I  want  you  to  be  sure.  Look  over 
there  towards  the  church;  you  can  see  the  dark  heap 
of  trees  against  the  sky  in  the  churchyard,  can't  you? 
There's  where  the  girls  are  —  there's  where  they 
are." 

"Why,  of  course,  Mira.  Though  how  the  Lord 
could  take  those  pretty  young  things,  and  our  only 
two,  that  had  come  to  us  when  we  was  long  past 
hopin',  is  more  'n  I  can  see." 

They  went  to  bed,  but  later  in  the  night  Mrs. 
Quinsby  waked  suddenly.  Her  first  thought  was 
that  the  storm  was  really  coming  and  she  had  left  the 
pantry  windows  open.  She  slipped  out  of  bed,  but 
as  she  realized  that  her  movement  did  not  disturb  her 
husband,  a  blind  terror  came  over  her ;  she  struck 
match  after  match  before  she  could  make  herself 
believe  he  was  not  there.  Then  she  picked  up  a 
shawl  and  flung  it  over  her  nightgown,  and,  regard 
less  of  her  bare  feet,  rushed  out  to  the  garden.  The 
wind  was  blowing  hard  and  the  moon  was  half 
hidden  by  the  lightly  scudding  clouds,  but  Hiram's 
laugh  —  the  pleased,  indulgent  laugh  that  his  girls' 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


Whither  Thou  Goest 


nonsense  had  so  often  produced  —  guided  her  to 
him. 

"  That  you,  Mother  ?  "  he  called  as  she  ran  down 
the  path.  "  What  a  couple  of  colts  you  've  brought 
up,  Mira.  Reckon  you  could  find  their  beat  any 
wheres  in  Mizzourer  for  friskiness  ?  Just  see  those 
girls  racin'  round  —  a  storm  comin'  up  always  did  go 
to  their  heads.  Hear  Nan  laugh  !  Ain't  she  the 
greatest  girl  for  foolin'  you  ever  saw?" 

He  pointed  to  some  tall  hollyhocks  that  she  could 
see  were  bending  low  with  the  wind,  and  added, 
"  Watch  her  bow  ;  Nan  was  always  as  easy  movin' 
in  her  body  as  a  saplin'  or  a  tall  flower." 

Mrs.  Quinsby  put  her  arm  around  his  shoulder. 
"  Oh,  he  's  let  go  —  you  've  let  go,  Father,  and  I  'm 
left  !  I  can't  stand  the  lonesomeness,  I  can't,  I 
can't  !  " 

They  moved  toward  the  arbor.  As  they  passed 
under  the  drooping  honeysuckle,  Hiram  laughed 
aloud. 

"  They  are  putting  their  hands  over  our  eyes  to 
make  us  guess  which  is  which  —  the  little  geese  !" 

Mrs.  Quinsby  put  her  hand  to  her  forehead  and 
pressed  the  cool  honeysuckle  leaves  against  her  eyes. 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 


By  Katharine  Bates 


She  laughed  too.  "I  knew  it,"  she  whispered, 
"  I  knew  the  Almighty  would  let  me  go  with  him. 
He  knew  how  it  was  with  Hiram  and  me."  Aloud 
she  said,  "I  guess  Winnie.  Yore  hands  ain't  as 
soft  as  Winnie's,  Nan." 


An  Impassable  Gulf 

By 

Katharine  Bates 


AN   IMPASSABLE   GULF 

OETER  ELSTON'S  two  nieces,  Nancy  Rollins 
•*•  and  Hester  Elston,  stood  on  opposite  sides 
of  the  frame,  working  together  silently.  Suddenly 
Hester  dropped  her  needle,  straightened  her  lithe 
young  figure,  and  throwing  back  her  pretty  head, 
said  hurriedly  : 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  feel  so,  Nan!  You 
must  see  how  good  he  is,  as  well  as  bein'  different 
from  any  boy  we  *ve  ever  known  round  here  on  the 
Prairie.  Ain't  he  always  thoughtful  'bout  pleasin' 
Uncle  Peter?  And  he's  gone  to  church  reg'lar 
with  us  every  Sunday  he's  been  here,  ain't  he?" 

She  pauses,  catching  her  breath  after  her  eager 
speech,  and  looking  yearningly  at  Nancy.  The 
older  girl's  pale  face  hardened  as  she  caught  the 
imploring  glance. 

"He  seems  to  me  to  be  very  worldly,"  she  said 
coldly. 

The  color  rushed  to  Hester's  cheeks,  and  she 
bent  quickly  over  the  frame ;  for  a  few  moments 
IS 


16  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

An  Impassable  Gulf 

she  sewed  vigorously,  saying  to  herself  with  fierce 
indignation,  as  she  worked  : 

"  I  declare  if  I  think  Nancy  is  so  spiritual,  after 
all  —  a  judgin'  Fred  like  that,  and  all  because  he 
told  her  he  liked  to  go  now  and  then  to  the 
the-rf-tre  !  ' ' 

Resentment,  however,  never  lingered  long  in 
Hester's  heart,  and  at  last  she  raised  her  head 
again. 

"I  wish  you  did  feel  different,  Nan,"  she  said 
gently.  "I  can't  bear  to  think  of  you  not  takin' 
to  the  man  I  'm  goin'  to  marry.  You  and  me  have 
always  seemed  jest  like  sisters  ever  since  Uncle  Pete 
took  us  to  raise." 

Nancy's  blue  eyes  met  the  pleading  brown  ones 
more  gently  this  time. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  slowly,  "  you  have  been  jest 
like  a  sister  to  me,  Hetty." 

Hester  ran  around  the  frame  and  threw  her  arms 
around  her  cousin  with  the  eager  expression  of 
affection  which  always  embarrassed  Nancy. 

"  Nan,"  she  cried,  "I  jest  do  wish  you  could 
see  it  the  way  I  do.  Fred  is  so  good,  and  it 's  only 
because  he  lives  in  town  that  he  has  gotten  to  like 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  17 

By  Katharine  Bates 

such  things  as  the-rf-tres.      You  do  take  to  him  sure 
'nough,  don't  you  ?  " 

Nancy's  voice  quivered  as  she  answered  the  pas 
sionate  appeal. 

"  I  know  he's  got  pleasant  ways,  and  he  's  right 
principled  about  a  lot  of  things,  but,  Hetty,  there  's 
no  denyin'  he  puts  pleasure  before  servin*  the  Lord, 
and  we  are  told  mighty  plain  in  the  Bible  not  to 
make  friends  with  the  Mammon  of  unrighteousness." 

Hester  bit  her  lip. 

"  There  's  some  folks,  and  real  good  ones,  too, 
who  think  havin'  some  pleasures  like  Fred  cares  for 
and  bein'  real  down  good  Christians,  too,  ain't 
incompatible,"  she  said,  struggling  to  speak  calmly. 

"There's  a  gulf,"  Nancy  said  firmly,  "between 
me  and  the-^-tre  goers,  and  I  'm  mighty  sorry  for 
you,  Hester." 

"You  needn't  be,"  cried  Hester,  impatiently. 
"I'm  happy  and  satisfied  about  marry  in'  Fred  !" 

"  What 's  all  this  talk  about  marryin'  ?  "  Uncle 
Peter  called  in  at  the  doorway,  as  he  paused  to 
wave  his  bundle  of  birds  and  squirrels  at  his  nieces. 
"Jest  leave  a  couple  of  girls  alone,  and  their 
tongues  are  sure  to  get  to  waggin'  'bout  marryin'  ! 
a 


i8  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

An  Impassable  Gulf 

Come  along,  Hetty,  and  help  me  pick  and  clean 
this  lot.  It 's  been  a  fine  huntin'  day,  if  'tis  a  trifle 
coldish  for  an  old  man  like  me." 

"You  old!"  laughed  Hester,  as  they  settled 
themselves  by  the  kitchen  fire. 

"Yes,  I  am  gettin'  on,"  cried  Uncle  Peter, 
seriously,  "and  I  don't  see  how  I  am  goin'  to  do 
without  you,  Hester.  You  are  sure  you  want  to 
marry  Fred  ? " 

"Yes,  sure,"  said  Hester,  quickly.  "Uncle 
Pete,  wasn't  it  jest  marvellous  for  him  to  fall  in  love 
with  me,  when  he  's  a  town  man  and  knows  such 
a  lot  of  girls  with  better  manners  and  all  that?" 

Uncle  Peter  looked  meditatively  at  the  delicate 
rose  complexion,  the  large  brown  eyes,  and  the  soft, 
waving  hair. 

"I  don't  see  as  it  was  so  dreadful  queer,"  he 
said.  "  You  'd  pass  in  a  crowd,  Het." 

There  was  silence  for  a  little  while,  Hester 
dreaming  happy  dreams  of  her  future,  and  Uncle 
Peter  groaning  inwardly  at  the  prospect  of  being 
left  to  live  alone  with  the  more  spiritual  of  his 
nieces.  Suddenly  a  gleam  of  hope  came  to  him, 
and  he  said  : 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 19 

By  Katharine  Bates 

"Mebbe  you  can't  marry  him  after  all  —  town 
folks  have  a  great  way  of  not  makin'  a  livin', 
Hetty." 

"I  know  it,"  admitted  Hester,  almost  despon 
dently,  but  her  face  brightened  as  she  added  ;  "but 
it  is  such  a  great  big  store  Fred  is  clerkin'  in  that 
I'm  jest  sure  we  won't  have  to  wait  long,  Uncle 
Pete." 

The  waiting  time  proved  to  be  as  short  as  Hester 
and  Fred  had  hoped,  for  in  spite  of  his  "  worldli- 
ness"  Fred  was  a  faithful  young  fellow,  and  the 
promotion  which  made  possible  a  tiny  flat,  and 
housekeeping  on  a  limited  scale,  came  even  before 
he  had  expected  it.  Uncle  Peter  did  his  best  to 
be  cheery  at  the  simple  little  wedding,  and  Nancy 
had  baked  as  many  cakes  for  them  as  if  the  young 
couple  were  not  starting  out  on  a  sinful  career. 
Hester  prized  keenly  the  expressions  of  affection 
which  had  been  rare  up  to  the  time  when  her  uncle 
and  cousin  had  realized  what  a  difference  her  going 
would  make  in  their  lives,  and  her  grief  at  leaving 
her  home  amazed  and  almost  annoyed  Fred,  who 
had  grown  to  look  upon  himself  as  her  deliverer 
from  a  life  which  seemed  very  cramped  and  hard  to 
him. 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


An  Impassable  Gulf 


"  I  wish  there  was  somethin'  I  could  do  for  you, 
Hetty,"  Uncle  Peter  said,  when  the  last  of  the 
wedding  guests  had  departed,  and  he  and  Nancy 
were  hurrying  Fred  and  Hester  away  to  tte  train, 
for  they  were  going  at  once  to  their  new  home. 
He  took  her  carpet-bag  from  her,  and  awkwardly 
helped  her  to  button  the  linen  duster,  which  Nancy 
had  insisted  should  be  worn  to  the  station  to  protect 
the  new  travelling  dress  from  the  mud. 

"  There  is,"  said  Hester,  tremulously.  "Uncle 
Pete,  if  you  could  jest  make  Nancy  see  that  goin'  to 
the  the-rf-tre  ain't  incompatible  with  goin'  to  Heaven 
some  day,  I  'd  be  greatly  obliged  to  you." 

Uncle  Peter  drew  a  long  breath. 

"You  've  done  a  sight  of  work  here,  Hetty,"  he 
said  tenderly,  "and  I've  been  dreadful  fond  of 
you,  too,  but  I  '11  be  damned  if  I  will  try  to  get 
a  new  notion  into  Nancy's  head,  even  for  you  !  " 

Hester  sighed.  "I  s'pose  it  would  be  askin* 
a  good  deal  of  you,"  she  said  simply  "but,  Uncle 
Pete,  you  will  remind  her  anyway  that  Fred  and  I 
won't  be  able  to  afford  goin'  more  'n  once  in  a 
long,  long  time,  won't  you  ?  Now  good-bye, 
Uncle." 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


By  Katharine  Bates 


He  helped  her  into  the  wagon,  and  while  Fred 
and  Nancy  were  crossing  the  yard,  he  stood  looking 
at  her  with  his  lips  twitching  nervously. 

"  Good-bye,  Hester,"  Nancy  said,  climbing  up 
on  the  step  of  the  wagon.  The  two  kissed  each 
other,  and  Hester  clung  for  a  second  to  her  cousin's 
neck. 

"Oh,  Nan,"  she  whispered,  "we  have  always 
played  together  and  done  our  work  together  —  dor?  t 
feel  hard  to  me." 

Nancy  looked  down  at  her  sadly. 

"I  ain't  a  mite  hard,"  she  said  gently.  "I 
ain't  judgin',  Hetty,  only  there  's  a  gulf.  Good 
bye." 

She  turned  to  Fred  and  held  out  her  hand.  "  I 
wish  you  well,"  she  said,  in  her  clear,  calm  tones, 
and  then  she  opened  the  yard  gate  and  stood  inside, 
leaving  Uncle  Peter  a  chance  for  his  farewell. 

He  wrung  Fred's  hand,  but  no  words  came  from 
his  trembling  lips. 

"  I  '11  be  very  good  to  her,"  Fred  said  hurriedly. 
"  Good-bye,  sir.  I  hope  you  won't  mind  if  I  say 
I  consider  it  an  honor  to  be  your  nephew." 

At   the  time   Uncle   Peter  grasped  only  the  first 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


An  Impassable  Gulf 


words.  "Yes,''  he  said,  "be  good  to  her,  Fred 
—  she's  a  good  girl,  a  good  girl." 

He  stepped  on  the  hub  of  the  wheel,  and  Hester 
threw  her  arms  around  him,  kissing  vehemently  his 
gray  head  and  wrinkled  cheeks. 

"Don't  forget  me,"  she  sobbed.  "Oh,  how 
can  I  leave  you  and  Nan  and  the  old  place  ?  Good 
bye,  and  I  love  you,  I  do  so  love  you,  Uncle 
Pete  !  " 

At  a  sign  from  Nancy  the  hired  man  whipped 
up  the  horses.  As  they  drove  away  Hester  looked 
back  at  the  clump  of  oak-trees  around  the  house, 
and  then  at  the  two  figures  at  the  yard  gate. 

"I  wish  I  'd  done  more  for  'em  all  these  years 
they've  been  so  good  to  me,"  she  said,  the  tears 
streaming  down  her  cheeks.  Fred  held  her  hand 
close  between  both  of  his,  but  he  made  no  answer, 
for  her  grief  dazed  him.  He  knew  that  many  ele 
ments  in  her  life  had  been  distasteful  to  her  ;  and 
why  should  a  woman  who  was  marrying  the  man 
she  loved,  and  was  moreover  going  to  town  to  live, 
grieve  in  this  way  ?  The  hired  man  turned  in  his 
seat  and  gave  the  needed  word  of  comfort. 

"  You  've  done  a  sight  for  'em,"  he  said  warmly, 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  23 

By  Katharine  Bates 

"and  you  ain't  no  cause  to  fret,  Miss  Hetty. 
We'll  all  miss  you  terrible." 

Uncle  Peter  wandered  restlessly  around  the  farm 
until  dinner-time.  An  aching  heart  was  a  new 
experience  to  him,  and  one  that  he  did  not  know 
how  to  meet.  He  went  into  the  orchard  and  picked 
up  apple  after  apple,  and  after  a  mere  taste  flung 
each  of  them  away  ;  as  he  left  the  orchard  he 
stopped  to  look  back  at  the  mass  of  Spanish  needle 
and  goldenrod,  through  which  he  had  just  made  his 
way. 

"  How  she  did  like  all  that  yeller  stuff,"  he  said 
aloud.  "What  a  sight  of  interest  she  took  in  every 
thing  about  the  place.  She  was  a  good  girl,  and 
I  wish  I'd  a  quit  swearin'  —  'twould  have  tickled 
her  mightily.  Hanged  if  I  don't  quit  it  now  !" 

Nancy  had  an  unusually  good  dinner  ready  for 
him.  Preparing  it  had  helped  her  to  pass  the  morn 
ing,  for  Uncle  Peter's  was  not  the  only  aching 
heart.  She  helped  him  lavishly  to  half  a  dozen 
vegetables,  but  for  the  first  time  within  her  memory 
of  him,  he  had  no  appetite.  He  pushed  back  his 
chair  before  she  brought  his  pie,  and  as  he  did  so 
a  sudden  wave  of  antagonism  to  her  came  over  him  ; 


24  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

An  Impassable  Gulf 

he  had  never  spoken  to  her  of  her  stern  words  to 
Hester,  but  now  involuntarily  his  criticism  of  her 
slipped  from  him. 

"  Blessed  if  I  can  see  how  you  could  have  been 
so  hard  on  Fred,  and  let  pore  Hetty  go  away  feelin* 
so  broke  up,"  he  said  impetuously. 

Nancy  pressed  her  lips  together  firmly. 

"I  never  judged  Fred  himself,"  she  said.  "I 
always  separated  the  sin  from  the  sinner,  and  we  are 
bidden  to  be  unceasing  in  denouncing  sin." 

Uncle  Peter  said  no  more ;  he  rose  from  the 
table  and  went  out  to  the  porch,  and  as  he  sat  there 
Fred's  words  recurred  to  him,  and  roused  a  glow  of 
affectionate  feeling. 

"  Proud  to  be  my  nephew,"  he  repeated. 
"He's  a  fine  feller,  he  is,  and  Hetty's  done  well 
for  herself,  if  it  is  pretty  hard  on  us  to  be  left." 

He  went  back  to  the  dining-room,  where  Nancy 
was  clearing  the  dishes  away,  and  opening  the  door 
he  called  in  vehemently : 

"  Blamed  if  I  care  if  he  takes  her  to  the  the-^-tre 
every  night  in  the  week  !  " 

Nancy  turned  a  startled  face  to  him,  forgetful  of 
the  fact  that  tears  were  rolling  down  her  cheeks. 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 25 

By  Katharine  Bates 

The  unexpected  sight  of  her  grief  touched  her  uncle 
keenly  ;  he  had  never  before  seen  her  cry,  and  go 
ing  over  to  her  and  laying  his  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
he  said  affectionately,  "I'm  a  reg'lar  old  brute, 
Nan.  You  must  excuse  me,  and  remember  it 's 
losin'  Hetty  that 's  sorter  upset  me.  I  orter  be 
better  'n  usual  to  you,  instead  of  meaner,  for  I  can 
see  you  are  grievin*  too." 

"  I  have  more  cause  to  be  grievin'  even  than  you, 
Uncle  Peter,"  Nancy  said  sadly,  "for  there's  an 
impassable  gulf  between  Hetty  and  me  now." 

Uncle  Peter's  hand  slipped  from  her  shoulder. 

"Gulfs  be  damned,"  he  said  impatiently. 


In  a  Garden 

By 

Neith  Boyce 


IN   A   GARDEN 

OVER  the  wall  of  the  Mission,  against  the  glow 
ing  west,  the  tops  of  the  trees  flickered  in 
the  wind  from  the  sea,  shot  through  with  level 
glancing  arrows  of  clear  light.  The  sky  was  all 
astir  with  little  soft,  gold-tipped  clouds.  To  the 
languid  hush  of  the  hot  day  had  succeeded  a  subtle 
animation  like  the  smile  on  the  lips  of  a  sleeping 
woman. 

On  this  awakening  air  the  last  organ-notes  of  the 
vesper  service  died  away,  and  were  echoed  by  the 
slow,  rhythmic  swing  of  the  tall  eucalyptus-trees. 
The  rustle  of  the  leaves  imitated  the  sound  of  the 
devout  dispersing  from  the  chapel  ;  and  a  magnolia 
shook  out  from  its  great  white  chalices  an  incense 
more  penetrating  than  any  wafted  before  the  altar. 
Suddenly  all  this  gentle  derision  seemed  to  voice 
itself  in  a  burst  of  mocking  laughter,  faint  and  far 
away,  like  the  airy  merriment  of  elves.  The  sound 
approached  and  grew  louder,  running  through  the 


30  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

In  a  Garden 

notes  of  a  treble  scale.  And  the  trees  in  the  monks' 
garden  seemed  to  bend  and  listen  and  to  beckon 
while  they  shook  all  over  with  malicious  glee. 

Scurrying  over  the  ground  beyond,  with  bare, 
dusty  feet,  appeared  a  group  of  creatures  pulling 
each  other  by  extended  arms,  or  brown  garments 
which  seemed  a  part  of  the  earth,  or  by  their  braids 
of  strong,  black  hair.  Writhing  in  this  rough  play 
they  flung  themselves  against  the  wall.  A  pale- 
faced  girl  in  a  scarlet  blouse,  like  a  cactus-flower 
bursting  from  its  dull  sheath,  threw  up  her  arms  into 
the  dense,  dark  foliage  of  an  overhanging  fig-tree  and 
dragged  down  the  bough. 

"  They  are  ripe  !  —  what  did  I  tell  you  ?  "  she 
cried,  as  at  a  touch  a  purple,  bloomy  fig  fell  into 
her  hand.  She  tore  it  open  and  fastened  her  teeth, 
sharp  and  white  as  those  of  a  squirrel,  in  the  pink 
flesh. 

Her  companions  hung  back,  looking  at  her. 

"  If  we  are  caught  —  " 

"  What  do  we  care  ?  Cowards  !  There  —  now 
you  can  put  all  the  blame  on  me.  Eat,  then,  little 
pigs  that  you  are  !" 

Her  heavy-lidded  eyes  were  cold  and  contemptu- 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 3,1 

By  Neith  Boyce 

ously  smiling.  Hanging  to  the  bough  with  both 
hands,  she  shook  it  roughly,  and  the  ripe  figs  fell 
in  a  shower,  some  flattening  to  pulp  on  the  ground. 
The  girls  flung  themselves  down,  and,  chattering, 
gathered  the  unspoiled  fruit  into  the  skirts  of  their 
gowns. 

"  It  is  true  ;  they  are  better  than  ours,"  cried 
one. 

"Trust  the  holy  fathers  to  have  the  best,"  added 
another,  lowering  her  voice. 

"  They  taste  better,"  said  Fiora,  the  tall  girl  in 
the  scarlet  blouse,  "because  we  are  stealing  them." 
And  she  licked  her  red  lips  with  satisfaction. 

"  There  must  be  better  ones  higher  up, ' '  said 
a  fourth,  greedily,  standing  with  her  hands  on  her 
broad  hips  and  her  head  thrown  back. 

"Let us  see,"  responded  Fiora. 

Again  she  caught  hold  of  the  drooping  branch, 
drew  herself  up,  and  in  an  instant  the  thick  foliage 
hid  her  from  sight.  Her  companions,  half-smothered 
with  laughter,  besought  her  to  return. 

"  Oh,  if  you  are  seen  !  " 

"Catch  !  "   cried  Fiora. 

A  rain  of  soft  bodies  fell,  thumping  them  about 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


In  a  Garden 


the  shoulders.  Through  the  parted  leaves  an  im 
pudent  face  looked  down,  framed  like  a  young  faun's 
in  living  green. 

"  I  am  going  higher  —  I  am  going  to  look  into 
the  garden!  " 

"  Oh  !  Oh  ! "  in  frightened  and  delighted  chorus. 
"  You  dare  not  !  " 

"Listen,  my  children,"  said  Fiora,  condescend 
ingly.  "  They  say  no  woman  has  ever  seen  this 
garden.  Well,  I  have  a  great  mind  to  be  the 
first!" 

Lying  along  the  thick  branch,  she  listened 
smilingly. 

"  It  is  forbidden  !  " 

"  You  will  be  punished  !  " 

"The  holy  fathers  —  " 

"What  have  they  in  their  garden,"  she  cried  at 
last,  "that  is  so  sacred  that  we  may  not  see  it? 
Would  our  feet  soil  the  grass  or  the  paths?" 

The  girls  looked  at  one  another  slyly  and  hid 
their  faces ;  and  their  malicious  laughter,  stifled  with 
difficulty  and  uncontrollable,  mingled  again  with  the 
eager  murmurs  of  the  trees. 

Fiora,   herself  laughing,  she  scarcely  knew  why, 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  33 

By  Neith  Boyce 

disappeared,  the  leaves  closing  behind  her  like  a 
green  sea.  She  crept  along  the  great  branch  until 
her  feet  found  something  firm — the  top  of  the 
wall.  Clinging  to  the  trunk  of  the  tree  which 
leaned  against  this  wall,  she  tried  to  pierce  the 
thick  layers  of  foliage  below  her,  but  in  vain  ;  noth 
ing  was  to  be  seen  in  the  garden.  She  swore  softly. 
Then,  in  trying  to  extend  herself  upon  a  branch 
which  projected  into  the  garden,  she  slipped,  catch 
ing  vainly  at  the  nearest  twigs,  and  with  a  thrill  of 
alarm  came  to  her  feet  upon  the  forbidden  soil. 
She  clenched  her  hands,  full  of  bruised  leaves,  against 
her  breast,  as  she  crouched  in  the  shelter  of  the  droop 
ing  boughs.  Startled  by  the  noise  of  her  fall,  her 
companions  took  flight  like  a  covey  of  birds,  with 
a  rustle,  a  faint  murmur  —  silence. 

Fiora  sank  to  her  knees  and  remained  for  some 
moments  motionless,  gazing  out  into  the  garden. 
In  the  dusk,  deepened  by  the  shadow  of  encircling 
trees,  nothing  was  visible  save  narrow  paths  strewn 
with  opal-colored  sea-shells  glimmering  amid  fresh 
turf,  and  roses  blooming  in  masses  along  these  walks 
and  hiding  the  wall  under  their  heavy  leaves,  thick 
with  flowers  like  pale  flames.  Silence  —  except  for 
3 


34  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

In  a  Garden 

the  applauding  whisper  of  the  trees  and  the  plash  of 
water.      There  was  no  one  in  the  garden. 

Taking  courage,  the  intruder  pushed  her  way  out 
from  under  the  boughs  of  the  fig-tree.  The  freshly 
sprinkled  grass  caressed  her  feet.  The  perfume  of 
the  roses  and  the  magnolia  blossoms,  becoming  more 
intense  as  the  dew  began  to  gather,  surrounded  her 
like  an  invisible  presence,  seeming  to  draw  her  on. 
She  stole  softly  forward,  her  eyes  alert  for  the  least 
warning  and  alive  with  curiosity.  The  path  ied 
her  through  an  arbor  drifted  deep  with  the  per 
fumed  snow  of  wistaria,  and  between  banks  of 
golden  pansies  set  in  mosaic  borders.  At  the  inter 
section  of  this  gleaming  streak  with  another  a  foun 
tain  played  in  a  white  basin,  tossing  high  in  the  air 
a  crystal  ball.  The  crest  of  the  plume  of  water 
caught  a  gleam  of  golden  light,  and  the  transparent 
ball  glittered  as  it  rose  every  instant  from  shadow. 
Fiora  paused  to  watch  it  and  to  follow  the  arrowy 
glidings  of  the  gold-fish  in  the  basin.  The  short 
southern  twilight  was  already  ended.  It  was  now 
dark  —  the  hour  at  which  the  fathers  took  their 
evening  meal.  Yielding,  therefore,  to  her  fancy, 
she  followed  the  windings  of  the  paths,  stopping 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  35 

By  Neith  Boyce 

recklessly  to  pluck  now  a  scarlet  pomegranate,  which 
she  ate  with  puckered  lips;  now  a  rose,  crimson 
or  yellow,  or  a  long  spray  of  white  roses  with  pink 
hearts,  set  close  together  on  the  stem.  Huge  cacti, 
their  gray,  distorted  bodies  spotted  with  blood- 
colored  blossoms,  stood  here  and  there  in  clumps. 
Banana  trees  waved  softly  their  long,  graceful  fronds. 
The  wind  stirred  with  a  dry  rustle  among  palms 
with  broad  trunks  and  large  fans,  and  others,  slender 
and  lofty,  with  crests  like  stacked  swords,  and  among 
masses  of  pampas-grass  tufted  with  great  white  plumes. 
Along  the  wall,  to  which  now  and  then  Flora's 
wanderings  in  the  confined  space  brought  her,  grew 
apricot  and  peach  trees  heavy  with  ripe  fruit.  These 
perfect  sweets  also  she  tasted  capriciously  and  threw 
away  half-eaten.  The  place  exerted  a  strange  in 
fluence  over  her.  The  hour,  the  delicious  thrill 
of  danger,  the  heavy  perfumes,  intoxicated  her.  It 
seemed  that  the  trees  bent  toward  her  to  murmur 
something,  that  the  pale  faces  of  the  flowers  held 
some  mysterious  message.  They  looked  friendly ; 
they  appeared  to  smile  knowingly  at  her,  to  en 
courage  her,  to  urge  her  on.  Vaguely  she  felt  all 
this  breathing,  eager  life  a  part  of  her,  belonging  to 


36 CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

In  a  Garden 

her.  She  threw  back  her  head,  turning  it  from 
side  to  side  with  an  air  of  satisfied  possession,  draw 
ing  in  the  cool  air  through  her  nostrils  and  parted 
lips  with  sensuous  delight  —  this  pale  creature  whose 
eyes  showed  a  savage  response  to  the  cajoling  beauty 
about  her. 

Convinced  at  last  that  the  garden  held  no  secret, 
save  that  of  certain  flowers  and  fruits  cultivated  to 
unknown  perfection,  —  for  she  had  explored  it  from 
the  limiting  wall  to  where  the  pallid  outline  of  some 
building  of  the  Mission  gleamed  through  the  trees, 
—  she  came  back  to  the  fountain  and  sat  down  on 
the  wooden  bench  at  the  path's  edge,  her  flowers 
heaped  in  her  lap.  She  gave  herself  a  few  moments 
more  to  watch  the  leaping  ball,  which  now  sparkled 
like  silver  in  the  midst  of  glittering  spray.  A  shaft 
of  moonlight,  striking  through  the  trees  upon  the  jet 
of  water,  crept  steadily  downward.  The  girl,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  this  trembling  column  of  white  fire 
and  foam,  fell  in  a  vague,  trance-like  dream.  The 
ripple  of  the  fountain  in  her  ears  drowned  the  echo 
of  slow  footsteps  advancing  along  the  path. 

It  was  Father  Anselmo's  custom,  while  digesting 
his  supper  of  meat  pasty  and  chocolate,  to  pace 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  37 

By  Neith  Boyce 

the  garden,  whose  beauty  seldom  failed  to  inspire 
him  with  poetical  images,  and  to  add  each  even 
ing  some  dozen  lines  to  his  panegyric  ode  on  Saint 
Francis.  Anselmo  was,  in  fact,  a  poet,  —  but  a 
poet  whose  strictly  regulated  fancy  never  openly 
strayed  beyond  the  confines  of  the  cloister.  His 
gentle  muse  sang  consecrated  themes  alone.  And 
if,  surrounded  by  an  indolent,  veiled  fervor  of  tropi 
cal  nature,  apt  to  long,  arid  trances,  and  to  sudden 
outbursts  of  fierce  luxuriance,  his  imagination  was 
sometimes  troubled,  these  secret  vagaries  were  re 
pressed  or  found  no  acknowledged  utterance.  In  his 
black,  shapeless  robe,  above  which  his  placid  face 
showed  like  a  sickly  moon,  the  father,  whether 
meditating  on  the  pasty  or  Saint  Francis,  seemed 
no  prey  to  the  poetic  ardor ;  its  afflatus  left  him 
undizzied  and  peaceful.  Yet  the  mystery  of  the 
night,  the  garden's  magic,  must  have  struck  some 
responsive  chord  within  him.  For  how  else  should 
his  bodily  eyes  have  beheld  beneath  the  shadow  of 
the  acacia  bushes  a  creature  not  human,  surely  not 
divine  ;  no  spiritual  vision,  but  an  apparition  born 
of  the  earth  and  evil.  It  sat  half-visible,  buried  to 
the  chin  in  flowers,  motionless,  its  face  a  mere  pale 


38  CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 

In  a  Garden 

shimmer,  its  great  shadowy  eyes  fixed  upon  him. 
These  eyes  were  terrifying. 

Anselmo  retreated  some  steps  upon  their  discovery  ; 
then,  after  much  hesitation,  advanced  again,  extend 
ing  the  cross  of  his  rosary  and  muttering  with  trem 
bling  lips  certain  words  of  proved  potency.  But 
neither  holy  symbol  nor  exorcism  availed  against  the 
evil  spirit.  It  refused  to  flee  ;  sat  dumb  —  it  seemed 
to  Anselmo  disdainful.  Suddenly,  wrathful,  he  took 
another  step  forward ;  the  creature  drew  in  its 
breath  sharply,  with  an  audible  sound  ;  its  lips 
parted,  showing  a  row  of  gleaming  teeth.  Anselmo 
paused. 

This  was,  he  perceived,  the  spirit  of  the  garden, 
and  it  was  plainly  hostile.  Was  he,  then,  the  in 
truder  ?  Vaguely  a  sense  of  helpless  fright  invaded 
his  soul.  Yes,  the  trees  were  in  league  with  this 
being  ;  they  bent  towards  him  threateningly  !  The 
air  was  full  of  veiled  alarms.  What  of  the  rose 
bushes  which  even  now  reached  out  clutching  hands 
to  detain  him  ?  An  overblown  white  rose  broke 
and  fell  in  a  soft  shower  about  his  shoulders,  and 
he  started  ;  a  bat  swooped  down  with  swift,  filmy 
wings,  just  grazing  his  head  ;  he  shrank  back. 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  39 

By  Neith  Boyce 

Could  it  be  that  he  was  in  danger,  that  his  wan 
dering  thoughts  were  known,  that  his  sinful  fancies 
had  thus  taken  shape  to  confound  him  ?  Anselmo 
crossed  himself.  It  was  true  —  moved  by  the  gar 
den' s  spell  he  had  sometime  in  reverie  invoked  the 
animating  principle  of  this  beauty  of  earth,  which 
he  knew  well  was  soulless  and  evil  —  and  behold  it 
incarnate  ! 

Yet  the  apparition  did  not  menace  him  overtly, 
perhaps  it  felt  his  spiritual  armor  proof.  Never 
theless,  it  was  his  part  to  fly  possible  danger,  to 
deliver  over  the  unhallowed  domain  to  its  true  pos 
sessor.  What  part  had  he  in  these  caresses  of  the 
breeze,  these  wooings  of  flowers,  these  marriages  of 
insects,  this  glamour  of  nocturnal  magic? 

Knowing,  as  he  did,  the  evil  power  of  the  moon 
at  its  full,  how  had  he  been  persuaded  to  walk  in 
debatable  ground  where  that  demoniac  glory,  rising 
warm  and  wanton  above  the  trees,  could  mock  and 
threaten  him  ?  Under  the  branches  of  the  acacia 
the  shadow  sat  still  in  deeper  shadow  ;  save  that 
the  rays  of  the  moon  fell  upon  two  slim,  naked 
feet,  which  the  short  grass  could  not  cover.  It  had 
taken,  then,  the  form  of  a  woman,  that  the  garden 


40  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

In  a  Garden 

and  its  tradition  might  be  doubly  desecrated ! 
Anselmo's  indignation  was  not  fierce  enough  to 
nerve  his  soul,  weakened  by  mystic  terrors.  He 
turned  to  fly,  but,  instead,  uttered  an  exclamation, 
calling  in  a  trembling  voice  : 

"  Brother  Emanuel  !  " 

"I  am  coming,"  was  the  answer. 

Another  black  robe,  another  pale  face,  appeared 
beside  him,  and,  like  him,  started  back  at  perceiv 
ing  the  strange  figure.  After  consultation  in  whispers 
the  bolder  monk  approached  the  acacia. 

"  This  is  no  spirit,  Brother  Anselmo  —  it  is  a 
woman  !  "  he  cried. 

"  A  woman  !  How  could  a  woman  get  into 
the  garden  ? ' ' 

The  first  speaker  cast  a  troubled  glance  in  the 
direction  of  the  high  wall. 

"  True,"  he  said  uncertainly.  "  Still  it  must 
be." 

But  involuntarily  he  moved  a  step  nearer  his 
companion. 

Both  glanced  down  at  the  slender  feet  in  the  grass. 
These  seemed  to  move,  and  the  spirit,  or  woman, 
turned  her  head  swiftly  from  side  to  side.  Her 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  41 

By  Neith  Boyce 

breath  came  quicker,  but  the  monks  could  not  hear 
it,  or  they  might  have  taken  courage. 

"It  is  astonishing,"  murmured  Brother  Emanuel, 
uneasily. 

While  they  stood  undecided  between  the  attack 
and  the  retreat,  suddenly  from  the  chapel  near  by 
the  organ  gave  voice  in  a  deep,  swelling  chord, 
which  climbed  by  subtle  and  suave  modulations 
and  soared  aloft  into  a  tender  melody. 

"  It  is  Brother  Angelo,"  whispered  Anselmo. 

"  It  is  holy  music  !  "  said  Emanuel,  devoutly, 
and  he  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  in  the  air  before 
him. 

The  tremulous  notes,  growing  louder,  drowned 
the  rustle  of  the  leaves,  the  plash  of  the  fountain, 
the  sigh  of  the  wind.  It  seemed  as  though  the 
garden  hushed  half-unwillingly  to  listen,  when  a 
voice,  humanly  deep  and  sweet,  but  spiritualized 
into  something  not  less  than  divine,  took  up  the 
melody  and  bore  it  higher  and  heavenward,  pour 
ing  out  into  the  night  a  flood  of  ecstasy  and  aspira 
tion.  The  march  of  the  music  was  solemn  and 
splendid,  and  its  soul  was  a  joy  unearthly  and 
beyond  utterance. 


42 CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

In  a  Garden 

The  black-robed  brothers  stood  and  listened, 
rebuked  and  dumb,  turning  their  faces  toward  the 
glimmering  wall  of  the  chapel,  and  forgetting  for 
a  moment  the  fears  which  had  agitated  them,  with 
their  cause.  What  were  all  the  potencies  of  the 
passionate  earth,  so  easily  diverted  from  good,  against 
this  royal  dominion  ? 

The  evil-seeming  spell  was  broken.  A  sudden 
movement,  no  sound  but  a  stirring  of  the  air,  re 
called  their  attention.  The  foliage  of  the  acacia 
trembled  as  though  a  bird  had  taken  wing.  The 
bench  was  vacant,  flowers  strewed  the  ground 
before  it,  the  presence  had  vanished.  Her  white 
feet  or  a  breath  of  air  had  borne  her  away.  The 
diapason  of  the  organ  drowned  the  sound  her  flight 
might  have  made ;  and  the  trees  bent  as  though 
to  bury  in  shadow  her  possible  path.  Emanuel 
made  a  long  step  forward. 

"Woman  or  spirit,  she  is  gone!  "  he  cried,  and 
stooped  to  see  what  trace  of  her  those  scattered  roses 
might  show.  Anselmo  grasped  his  companion's 
sleeve.  s 

"Do  not  touch  them,"  he  entreated,  glancing 
fearfully  over  his  shoulder.  "  Who  knows  what 
spell  is  upon  them?" 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 43 

By  Neith  Boyce 

True,  when  found  next  morning,  withered  and 
scentless,  these  flowers  appeared  commonplace  enough. 
Nor  did  there  exist  other  proof  that  on  this  spot 
two  brothers  of  the  order  had  beheld  a  strange  and 
dangerous  vision.  None  the  less  was  their  sober 
account  accepted  implicitly  by  the  brethren,  of 
whom  the  wiser  ever  thereafter  avoided  to  walk  in 
the  garden  at  the  moon's  full ;  though  certain  of 
the  more  youthful  were  known  to  adventure  them 
selves  at  that  place  and  season. 

It  is  not  recorded  that  their  daring  and  zeal  met 
with  any  reward  or  recognition.  Nor,  perhaps, 
is  this  to  be  wondered  at.  For  if  any  wandering 
spirit,  coveting,  yet  not  daring  to  enter  the  garden, 
had  strayed  near  to  the  confining  wall,  it  must  have 
heard  daily  the  solemn  chant  of  the  Church's 
exorcism  directed  against  all  powers  unholy  ;  it 
must  daily  have  beheld  a  slow  procession  of  monks 
make  the  circuit  of  the  shell-strewn  paths,  sprinkling 
the  ground  with  holy-water  to  purify  it  from  the 
contaminating  touch  of  a  woman's  foot.  And  if, 
spirit  or  woman,  it  were  still  undeterred,  there  was 
Angelo's  music  at  evening  —  like  another  flaming 
sword  at  the  gate  of  this  Eveless  Eden  ! 


Oreste's  Patron 

By 

Grace  Ellery  Channing 


ORESTE' S   PATRON 

'""THE  Signore  Americano,  musing  over  his  morning 
*  coffee  on  the  Villa  terrace,  gazed  intently  into 
the  distance  where  Florence  lay  invisible  behind  the 
hills. 

"  Buon'  giorno,  Signore!"  called  Oreste,  rein 
ing  in  Elisabetta  and  lifting  his  cap  with  a  smile. 

"  Buon'  giorno!  "  returned  the  Signore,  starting. 
"  Ah,  you  are  going  to  the  city,  and  I  wanted  to 
go  myself!  " 

Oreste  looked  troubled. 

"  Signore,  —  how  much  I  am  sorry !  It  dis 
pleases  me,  but  I  am  already  promised  to  my  patron. 
When  one  is  poor,  one  must  think  of  the  francs  for 
the  family,"  he  added  apologetically. 

The  Signore,  who  knew  no  such  necessity, 
frowned. 

"  This  is  the  fifth  time  this  Carnivale  —  and 
you  just  married!  If  I  had  a  sposina  —  " 

"The  Signore' s  sposina  would  lack  for  nothing," 
smiled  Oreste.  "  We  others,  —  we  must  do  as  we 
47 


48  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

Oreste's  Patron 

can.  As  for  Gioja,  she  goes  to  pass  the  day  with 
her  nonna  at  Vincigliata.  I  will  bring  the  Signore's 
mail  as  usual." 

The  Signore  waved  his  hand  impatiently,  and 
knocked  the  ashes  from  his  cigarette,  then,  as  the 
shabby  cab,  with  Elisabetta  pulling  heroically  back 
against  the  steepness,  wound  from  sight,  his  glance 
softened.  It  was  a  piece  of  fortune  surely  for  a 
Vignola  cabman  to  have  a  city  patron.  Fortunes 
were  not  to  be  made  up  here  where  nobody  but  the 
forestieri,  who  came  from  time  to  time  to  make  a 
villegiatura  in  one  or  another  of  the  villas,  would 
think  of  wasting  francs  for  the  sole  purpose  of  getting 
somewhere.  The  inhabitants  stayed  where  they 
found  themselves  placed  by  Providence.  To  all 
intents,  Vignola  might  be  a  hundred  miles  from 
Florence  instead  of  a  bare  six.  Besides,  a  stranger 
Signore  passes  with  the  season,  but  a  city  patron 
remains.  Nuisance  as  it  was  to  have  his  own  plans 
conflicted  with,  the  Signore  forgave  Oreste. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  this  melting  mood  congealed 
again,  as  a  slender  figure  stole  quietly  down  the 
Way. 

It  was  Gioja,  walking  with  her  usual  listless  grace. 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES    49 

By  Grace  Ellery  Channing 

Her  small  head,  its  crisply  waved  Tuscan  hair  bound 
with  a  kerchief  of  dull  blue,  was  carried  far  back  as 
no  kerchiefed  head  has  a  right  to  be  ;  and  her  eyes, 
blue  as  the  kerchief  but  not  dull,  looked  straight 
ahead,  dilated  and  musing.  She  did  not  see  the 
Signore,  —  a  thing  that  could  have  befallen  no  other 
girl  in  the  village,  unless  it  were  blind  Chiara,  and 
the  Signore  watched  her  go  with  a  frown,  —  for  this 
was  not  the  direction  of  Vincigliata.  And  why 
was  she  starting  so  early,  unless  to  defeat  the 
glances  with  which  all  these  closed  doors  would 
soon  be  alive  ? 

Yet  he  continued  to  watch  her.  There  were 
other  girls  in  the  village  just  as  pretty.  Many  a 
strain  of  noble  blood  had  gone  to  the  making  of 
these  Vignolese  peasants.  This  was  not  the  first 
girl  the  Signore  had  seen  who  looked  as  if —  change 
her  gown  and  tie  a  bonnet  over  her  hair  —  she 
might  loll  in  her  carriage  of  an  afternoon  at  the 
Cascine  with  the  best  of  the  fine  ladies  in  the  city 
below.  But  there  was  no  other  whom  the  Signore 
ever  leaned  over  the  wall  to  look  after.  And  as  he 
leaned  his  frown  deepened ;  he  was  sorry  for 
Oreste  ;  but  —  marry  a  girl  like  that  and  leave  her 

4 


5o  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

Oreste's  Patron 

alone,  in  Italy  !  Anybody  might  foresee  the  end. 
And  he  frowned  again,  not  at  Gioja  this  time,  who 
had  disappeared  from  view,  but  at  a  mental  image, 
wearing,  it  is  true,  an  air  dangerously  like  that  of 
Oreste's  sposa. 

Yes,  indeed,  anybody  might  foretell  the  end. 
That  was  what  the  whole  community,  already 
buzzing  with  the  scandal,  said.  And  it  was  exactly 
what  the  Padre  said  when,  five  minutes  later,  he 
came  up  the  path  and  sank  upon  the  marble  seat, 
mopping  his  brow  beneath  the  beaver  hat. 

"I  have  been  to  Oreste's,"  he  said  apologeti 
cally,  "  and  thought  I  would  look  in  upon  the  Sig- 
nore  in  passing.  There  was  nobody  there." 

The  Signore,  engaged  in  pouring  red  wine  for  his 
guest,  made  no  response,  and  the  priest  stole  a 
troubled  glance  at  him  as  he  took  the  glass  from  his 
hand. 

"  Perhaps,  Signore,  you  may  have  seen  them 
pass,  and  can  tell  me  if  that  child  went  with  her 
husband?" 

"No,"  said  the  Signore,  after  a  minute's  deliber 
ation,  "  I  could  not." 

His  guest  sighed  as  he  sipped  the  wine.      He  had 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  51 

By  Grace  Ellery  Channing 

grown  gray  in  the  service  of  the  village.  He  had 
known  Gioja  from  her  babyhood.  His  was  the 
hand  which  had  held  and  oiled  and  dipped  her  at 
the  font,  and  had  led  her  from  then  until  her  present 
estate  ;  and  he,  if  any  one,  had  a  right  to  borrow 
trouble,  seeing  that  all  troubles  were  brought  to  him 
in  the  end.  His  fine,  thin  lips  shut  above  the  wine 
glass  in  the  sensitive  line  which  marks  the  better  of 
Rome's  two  types.  His  soul  was  straight  and 
simple.  The  one  vanity  it  owned  was  to  be  on 
terms  of  companionship  with  the  occupant  of  the  big 
villa.  The  half  hour  on  its  terrace  or  in  its  salotto 
formed  his  social  dissipation,  and  dearly  did  he  prize 
the  importance  it  gave  him  in  the  eyes  of  his  flock. 
Nay,  it  gave  importance  to  the  whole  community. 

"  Not  every  village  has  a  priest  like  ours,"  said 
the  gossips,  complacently,  "  that  a  so-educated 
stranger  Signore  would  make  so  much  of." 

Moreover,  if  his  people  were  poor,  God  alone 
knows  how  poor  their  priest  was,  and  the  Signore 
possessed  a  fine  taste  in  wines,  —  true  Chianti,  a 
very  different  thing  from  vino  rosso  at  eighty  cen- 
tesimi  the  flask,  —  while  his  lavishness  was  that  of 
his  country. 


52  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

Oreste's  Patron 

As  for  the  Sign  ore,  he  would  pour  the  oil  from  a 
fresh  flask  any  time  to  unseal  the  lips  pressed  together 
as  now  over  the  case  of  Oreste'  s  sposa. 

"The  truth  is,"  sighed  the  priest,  "the  end  is 
too  easy  to  foresee.  The  child  is  not  like  others  ; 
and  there  is  nothing  worse  than  that.  That 's  what 
Luigi's  sposa  said  yesterday  when  I  rebuked  her  for 
thinking  evil,  and  recalled  to  her  how  Gioja  helped 
nurse  her  three  through  the  fever  only  last  spring. 
'Oh,  I'm  not  saying  she  hasn't  a  heart,'  said 
Luigi's  sposa  ;  '  but  you  can't  deny  that  all  is  not 
right  when  a  girl  is  different  from  all  the  rest  ;  it 
is  better  to  have  less  heart  and  be  more  like 
one's  neighbors.'  And  Luigi's  wife  had  reason. 
Nothing  is  worse  than  to  be  different  from  all  the 
folk  about  you.  When  I  had  her  safely  married,  I 
thought  indeed  there  would  be  an  end  of  trouble  ; 
—  Heaven  grant  it  do  not  prove  a  beginning  ! ' ' 

"  Does  she  not  love  her  husband  ?  " 

"Who  can  tell  ?"  sighed  the  priest,  impatiently. 
"Oreste  is  not  one  to  set  the  Arno  afire,  but  he  is  a 
good  lad.  But  about  her  he  is  a  mule,  —  a  very 
mule.  Would  you  believe,  Signore,  when  I  ven 
tured  a  word,  —  I,  whose  duty  it  is,  —  he  flared 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  53 

By  Grace  Ellery  Channing 

up  like  a  Befana  torch,  —  he  whose  manner  to  me 
ordinarily  is  a  lesson  to  the  community  !  " 

The  Signore  smiled  and  reflected  upon  the 
strength  of  man. 

"One  would  say  I  had  spoken  ill  of  the 
Saints,"  continued  the  exasperated  priest.  "And 
the  thing  is  becoming  insufferable,  —  such  a  tale  of 
scandal  as  some  one  whispers  to  me  every  day.  One 
would  think  she  has  neither  eyes  nor  ears,  and  cares 
not  whether  she  has  friends  or  foes  for  neighbors." 

There  is,  in  truth,  no  such  broad  and  flowery  path 
to  unpopularity  as  this  which  Gioja  undeviatingly 
pursued.  Nobody  who  elects  to  be  unlike  his 
neighbors  gets  social  good  of  it.  Had  not  the 
Signore  himself  seen  ? 

Bad  enough  it  was  to  have  her  sitting  wide-eyed 
and  absolutely  indifferent  at  her  machine,  and  so 
pretty  that  one  could  see  the  youths  looking  at  her 
when  they  pretended  not  to  ;  or  mooning  over  her 
straw  work  with  never  a  word  of  gossip  or  a  little 
story  about  a  friend,  more  than  if  they  were  all 
stones  :  but  what  did  these  absences  all  by  herself 
mean,  which  looked  the  worse  now  that  she  was  a 
decent  man's  wife  ?  It  was  an  absolute  scandal  — 


54  CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 

Oreste's  Patron 

which  is  only  another  name  for  a  godsend  some 
times —  to  a  sober  community. 

Oreste  might  pretend  to  shut  his  eyes,  —  he  had 
always  been  a  fool  about  her  ;  but  it  could  not  be 
asked  that  all  the  village  should  do  the  same,  espe 
cially  those  girls  who  would  have  made  decent 
wives  if  any  one  had  given  them  the  chance,  and 
those  lads  who  would  have  known  how  to  keep  a 
wife  in  order  if  they  had  taken  one. 

The  priest,  thinking  of  these  things,  sighed.  He, 
too,  might  affect  blindness  ;  but  he  would  need  to  be 
stone  deaf  as  well  to  escape  hearing  what  every 
tongue  in  the  village  felt  it  a  duty  and  a  privilege  to 
confide  to  him  daily. 

"  It  must  be  admitted  that  the  Signorina  Ameri 
cana  has  something  to  answer  for,"  the  priest  wound 
up,  as  he  invariably  did,  and  always  with  an  indul 
gent  accent  which  forgave  while  it  accused. 

The  Signorina  Americana  !  —  how  many  times 
was  she  not  levelled  at  the  ears  of  the  Signore 
Americano  who  had  inherited  her  tradition  with 
the  villa  of  which  he  was  the  next  lessee.  If  the 
contadini  were  to  be  believed,  there  was  little  for 
which  she  might  not  be  held  accountable.  They 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  55 

By  Grace  Ellery  Channing 

spoke  of  her  smilingly,  Oreste  tenderly,  the  priest 
indulgently  (the  Signorina  also  had  possessed  a 
generous  taste  in  wines),  and  Gioja  not  at  all.  Yet 
apparently  it  was  precisely  Gioja  who  might  have 
had  most  to  say. 

"Ah,  yes;  if  I  could  have  foreseen  when  I 
brought  that  child  to  her  !  But  what  harm  could 
come  to  her  from  earning  a  few  francs  as  the  Signo 
rina' s  maid  ?  I  chose  her  for  the  very  reason  that 
she  had  more  gentleness  and  was  more  educated  than 
the  others,  —  the  Signorina,  your  countrywoman, 
was  herself  very  educated  and  full  of  gentilezza. 
But  she  was  too  good  to  Gioja,  and  then  she  could 
never  be  made  to  see.  She  had  a  way  with  her,  — 
when  I  began  to  remonstrate  with  her  she  would 
fill  up  my  glass  and  ask  about  my  poor,  and,  before 
I  knew  it  —  altro !  she  was  very  generous,  your 
countrywoman.  But  if  there  are  many  like  her  in 
your  country  it  must  be  a  terrible  place ;  a  man 
would  not  possess  his  own  soul." 

The  Signore  laughed. 

"  She  would  sit  here  —  precisely  where  I  sit 
now  —  and  smile  a  little  smile  she  had,  and  twist 
this  rose-vine  about  her  fingers,  and  just  so  she 


56  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

Oreste's  Patron 

twisted  us  all.  Ah,"  he  concluded,  lifting  his  glass, 
"she  was  truly  terrible,  that  Signorina  ;  but  sim- 
patica,  altro !  never  have  I  seen  so  simpatica  a 
signorina." 

Simpatica!  When  you  are  that,  there  is  nothing 
else  you  can  be  ;  and  when  you  are  not  that,  noth 
ing  that  you  can  be  is  of  any  use.  When  everybody, 
down  to  the  newsboys  and  cab-openers,  loves  you 
and  doesn't  know  why, — you  are  simpatica; 
when  people  would  rather  do  things  for  you  than 
not,  and  don't  care  about  the  payment,  — then  you 
may  be  sure  you  are  simpatica  ;  when  the  expression 
of  their  eyes  and  the  tones  of  their  voices  change 
insensibly  when  they  look  at  and  speak  to  you,  — 
there  is  no  room  to  doubt  that  you  are  simpatica. 
You  may  not  be  rich,  nor  beautiful,  nor  "edu 
cated"  (such  a  very  different  thing  from  book-fed), 
but  you  do  not  need  to  be.  Simpatica  is  the  com 
prehending  sky  of  praise  in  which  separate  stars  of 
admiration  are  swallowed  up. 

While  the  Signore  figured  rapidly  the  mischief 
possible  of  accomplishment  by  a  dangerous  Signorina 
possessing  this  attribute,  the  priest  drank  another  glass 
of  wine  and  returned  to  the  trouble  of  his  soul. 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  57 

By  Grace   Ellery  Channing 

"  I  thought,  indeed,  with  a  wife's  work  to  do,  she 
would  settle  down  like  others  ;  but  Oreste  encourages 
her  wilfulness. ' ' 

"  Why  do  you  not  speak  to  Gioja  herself?" 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  "  exclaimed  the  priest,  crossing 
himself.  "  I  have  tried  that  once.  She  has  a  terri 
ble  nature,  —  that  child  !  I  have  never  told  any 
one  ;  but  see  if  I  have  not  reason  to  say  so,  Signore." 
He  sipped  his  wine  agitatedly,  and  then  began  with 
feeling :  — 

"  It  was  the  Signorina  to  begin  with  ;  she  saw 
that  the  child  was  pretty,  and  she  put  ideas  in  her 
head.  And  in  fact,  though  Heaven  forbid  I  should 
compare  Gioja,  who  is  only  a  little  contadina,  with 
a  real  Signorina,  yet  she  has  always  seemed  to  me  to 
have  a  little  something  about  her  which  recalls  the 
Signorina  herself,  —  a  way  of  walking  and  carrying 
her  head.  And  the  Signorina  had  not  an  idea  of 
keeping  her  in  her  place.  She  was  always  giving 
her  gowns  and  ribbons  and  trinkets  and  vanities 
of  all  kinds,  —  that  was  her  way,  always  giving. 
The  end  of  it  was  that  one  day  I  surprised  that 
child  with  a  hat  of  the  Signorina' s  on  her  unhappy 
head  ;  yes,  actually,  Signore,  if  you  will  credit  me, 


58 CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

Oreste's  Patron 

a  hat,  —  a  cappello  di  signora  on  her  head  !  "  He 
spread  his  hands  in  deprecating  despair. 

The  Signore  looked  blankly. 

"  Oh,  Signore,  you  are  like  your  countrywoman  ; 
it  is  impossible  to  make  you  understand  !  But  it  must 
be  a  country,  —  yours  !  For  a  girl  like  Gioja  to  put 
a  hat  on  is  to  declare  herself  without  shame  at  once. 
Honest  girls  of  her  class  let  such  roba  di  signore 
alone  ;  yes,  and  rightly,  for  God  has  put  people 
in  their  places.  A  girl  who  showed  herself  in  a 
signora' s  hat  would  find  it  impossible  to  live  in 
Vignola  ;  she  would  be  hooted  out  of  the  village. 
And  as  for  the  wife  of  a  lad  like  Oreste  pretending 
to  that,  —  half-a-dozen  lovers  would  not  be  a  worse 
scandal.  Those  at  least  the  others  could  understand, 
but  a  cappello  di  signora  — ' '  He  stopped  to  take 
several  agitated  sips,  shaking  his  head  all  the  time. 
"I  do  not  say  she  would  have  been  so  mad  as  to 
cross  the  threshold  in  it  (the  Signorina  had  given 
it  to  her  to  sell  for  the  feathers  upon  it)  ;  but  who 
could  tell  what  such  a  girl  might  do  ?  I  scolded  her 
well  for  her  wicked  vanity,  and  such  ideas  above  her 
place.  Santa  Maria  !  —  lovers  and  such  are  enough, 
without  a  scandal  like  that  among  my  people. 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  59 

By  Grace  Ellery  Channing 

Well,  what  was  the  end  ?  Signore,  she  rushed  off 
and  hung  that  hat,  with  at  least  twenty  francs'  worth 
of  good  feathers  on  it,  in  the  Madonna's  chapel, 
beside  'Maso's  crutch  and  the  little  hearts  and  legs 
and  other  offerings  to  Our  Lady  !  There  it  hung, 
where  all  the  world  would  see  it,  and  every  tongue 
in  the  place  be  set  wagging,  if  I  had  not  provi 
dentially  gone  in  and  found  it  before  Mass  next 
day.  And  even  then  what  could  I  do?  It  was 
the  Madonna's,  and  I  dared  not  remove  it.  But 
Heaven  sends  accidents,  and  as  it  chanced,  providen 
tially,  Signore,  my  candle  brushed  the  feathers  in 
passing  and,  presto,  I  dropped  it  quickly  into  a 
bucket  of  water.  It  was  not  fit  for  Our  Lady  after 
that,  so  I  took  it  away,  and  I  myself  made  it  up  to 
her  in  candles,  that  no  one  might  feel  hurt.  And 
after  all  nobody  was  the  richer  for  all  those  francs' 
worth  of  feathers ;  they  were  singed  more  than  I 
hoped,  and  did  not  bring  me  in  Florence  the  price 
of  the  candles.  Oh,  she  has  a  terrible  nature,  — 
that  Gioja  !  No,  no,  grazie,  —  if  I  must  speak  to 
Oreste,  I  must;  but  to  her!  —  candles  cost,  Signore, 
and  I  am  a  poor  man." 

Still  shaking  his  head,  he  rose  to  depart. 


60  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

Oreste's  Patron 

The  Signore,  left  alone,  paced  the  terrace  a  few 
times,  smiling  to  himself;  then  he  sat  down  again, 

—  this  time  in  the  priest's  place,  —  and  fell  to  mus 
ing,  and  as   he  mused  his  fingers  stole  almost  fur 
tively   to  the  long   rose-tendrils,    and  twisted  them 
gently,  while  the  smile  died  abruptly  on  his  lips. 

Presently  he  rang,  and  Giuseppina  came  out. 

"You  may  take  away  these  things,"  said  the 
Signore,  "and  bring  me  pen  and  paper.  Oh,  and 
by  the  way,  Giuseppina,  in  future  put  my  seat  here, 

—  the  valley  sees  itself  better. ' ' 

Coming  from  the  post  that  evening  the  Signore 
was  aware  of  a  slender  shape  slipping  along  through 
the  deepening  shadows  ahead.  Quickening  his  steps, 
he  overtook  it  easily. 

"Buon  sera  ;  so  it  is  you,  Gioja  ? ' ' 

"  Si,  Signore  !  "  —  the  voice  was  both  startled 
and  appealing. 

But  the  Signore  strode  along  looking  keenly  at  the 
downcast  face. 

"  Oreste  is  not  with  you  ?  " 

"  No,  Signore  ;  he  went  to  the  city." 

"  And  you  have  doubtless  been  visiting  your 
nonna  ?  ' ' 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  61 

By  Grace  Ellery  Charming 

"Yes,  Signore," — the  voice  was  almost  in 
audible. 

The  Signore  turned  on  his  heel,  with  a  curt 
"  Buona  sera  !  "  and  was  still  muttering  things  under 
his  breath  when,  fifteen  minutes  later,  he  beheld  from 
the  terrace  Oreste  and  Elisabetta  toiling  wearily  up 
the  hill. 

"  How  well  she  times  it,"  he  thought  contemp 
tuously,  as  the  bell  of  the  big  gate  sounded,  and  he 
heard  Giuseppina's  challenge  :  "  Who  is  it  ? " 

"  Amiciy  friends,"  answered  Oreste' s  voice, 
and  Oreste  swiftly  followed,  with  his  frank  smile 
and  a  square  envelope  of  dull  blue,  which  the 
Signore' s  hand  involuntarily  stretched  to  grasp. 

"  Ecco,  Signore,  — the  only  one  !  "  said  Oreste, 
with  that  polite  gesture  of  regret  with  which  he 
daily  accompanied  this  small  comedy.  The  Signore 
having  possessed  himself  of  the  letter  avidly,  put  it 
into  his  pocket  with  ostentatious  carelessness  and 
coolly  lighted  a  cigarette.  Oreste  smiled  compre- 
hendingly  but  respectfully. 

"  You  have  had  a  long  day  of  it  ?  " 

ff  Yes,  Signore,"  Oreste  smiled  with  the  satisfied 
air  of  one  who  has  done  a  good  day's  work. 


6z  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

Oreste' s  Patron 

"I  suppose  you  have  made  a  handful  of  money," 
continued  the  Signore,  severely. 

Oreste  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Not  great 
things,  —  but,  altro,  I  am  content." 

The  Signore  shrugged  in  his  turn.  "  Each  to 
his  own  mind.  Your  sposina  has  also  made  a  long 
day;  I  saw  her  just  now." 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  it  is  a  long  way  to  Vincigliata,  when 
one  must  walk.  The  Signore' s  commands?" 

"None." 

Truly,  the  Signorina  Americana,  if  this  was  her 
work,  had  small  reason  to  be  proud  of  it.  The 
Signore' s  frown  enveloped  even  the  blue  envelope, 
at  which  he  stood  staring  long  after  Oreste  had  left 
the  room. 

And  so  it  ran  through  the  spring  months,  —  the 
mournfully  beautiful  Tuscan  spring.  The  nightin 
gales  in  the  villa  gardens  sang  and  sang,  at  dusk,  in 
the  moonlight,  and  at  dawn,  and  the  fireflies  glittered 
all  through  the  darkness  up  and  down  the  olive 
slopes.  An  intenser  life  quickened  in  the  little 
community  as  the  summer  stirred  in  the  veins  of 
her  children.  The  youths  went  singing  up  and 
down  the  hills,  and  the  girls  and  women  lingered 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  63 

By  Grace  Ellery  Channing 

over  their  water  jars  at  the  fountain  in  the  square. 
For  what  is  it  to  be  poor  in  the  summer  time  ? 

Sometimes  the  Signore,  lying  awake  at  night, 
heard  Oreste's  mellow  voice  as  he  passed  by  to  the 
little  house.  But  through  all  this  gayety  of  being 
Gioja  stole  silently  and  dreamily,  and  the  whisper  of 
turned  heads  and  eyes  askance  followed  her.  For 
there  were  the  ever-recurring  festas,  when  Oreste 
went  to  the  city,  and  where  then  did  Oreste's 
sposa  go  ?  That  is  what  the  community  would  like 
to  know ;  for  the  tale  of  her  grandmother  was  quite 
too  large  for  the  village  throat.  She  kept  her  secret 
well,  —  yes  ;  but  there  is  only  one  kind  of  a  secret 
possible  to  the  Italian  mind. 

"  Birbone  !  "  said  the  women,  with  contempt  of 
Oreste,  while  the  men  laughed  and  shrugged  their 
shoulders.  Oreste  had  caught  a  pretty  sposa  who 
had  thought  herself  much  too  good  for  them,  but, 
ma  cbe,  —  he  was  paying  for  it. 

It  was  impossible  that  the  public  curiosity  should 
content  itself  with  being  curious.  Maria,  one  of 
those  public-minded  souls  which  never  lack  in  any 
community,  toiled  all  the  way  over  to  Vincigliata, 
and  brought  back  personal  assurance  from  the  nonna 


64  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

Oreste' s  Patron 

herself  that  that  pious  granddaughter  had  not  been 
seen  in  Vincigliata  all  these  months. 

"  Eight  good  miles  I  trudged  in  all  that  sun,  and 
a  day's  work  lost,"  declared  Maria,  mopping  her 
brow  in  the  midst  of  an  excited  and  sympathetic 
group.  "  If  my  legs  ache  !  But  for  the  good  of 
the  community  I  did  it  ;  and  what  I  know  to-night 
the  priest  shall  know  before  morning.  I  made 
haste  to  go  to-day,  for  to-morrow,  being  the  festa 
of  our  Saint  John,  Oreste  goes  to  the  city,  and  that 
civet  ta  —  '  * 

And  nobody  could  say  but  that  Maria  had  done 
well,  and  the  girl  deserved  whatever  might  come 
of  it. 

But  when  the  priest,  sad-eyed  and  stern,  knocked 
at  the  door  of  the  little  house  in  the  early  morning 
after  Mass,  no  one  was  there.  Having  delivered  a 
vain  fusillade,  to  the  accompaniment  of  many  sug 
gestions  offered  from  the  neighbors'  windows,  the 
priest  turned  away  and  betook  himself,  with  a 
clouded  brow,  to  the  Signore,  who  had  invited  him, 
by  Oreste,  to  breakfast  with  him  that  morning. 
He  was  waiting  for  him  now  on  the  terrace  with  a 
morning  countenance  ;  and  the  breakfast-table,  heaped 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  65 

By  Grace  Ellery  Channing 

with  roses,  wore  a  festal  air  which  did  not  escape 
the  priest,  preoccupied  though  he  was. 

"  You  also  are  keeping  a  feast,  Signore,  to  appear 
ances  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"Ah,  indeed  !  afesta  Americana  ?  " 

"No,  my  own.  And  now  what  is  it  about 
these  two  ?  Oreste,  I  know,  went  to  the  city.  I 
tried  to  engage  him,  but  he  was  pre-engaged  to  that 
patron  of  his.  And  Gioja,  —  well,  I  saw  her  pass 
a  little  later." 

"  While  we  were  in  the  church,  —  the  guilty 
child!"  said  the  priest,  sternly.  "  But  where  can 
she  have  gone  ?  "  he  added,  sighing.  <  I  have 
been  much  to  blame  ;  I  have  been  too  negligent ; 
I  should  have  dealt  with  her  from  the  first.  Cul- 
pa  mia!"  He  crossed  himself  and  looked  so  dis 
couraged  that  the  Signore  was  touched. 

"Listen,  amico  mio"  he  said.  "As  you  say,  it 
is  a  bad  business  ;  and,  arrange  it  how  you  will,  it 
will  never  be  well  that  those  two  shall  live  here. 
The  last  of  it  will  never  be  heard,  — if  I  know  your 
people.  I  am  going  away  to  Livorno  next  week, 
and  I  have  asked  Oreste  to  go  with  me.  I  like  the 
5 


66  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

Oreste's  Patron 

fellow,  and  away  from  here  she  may  come  to  her 
senses.  She  is  young,  and,  guilty  though  she  may 
be,  she  does  not  seem  case-hardened." 

"  Going  away  ! ' '  exclaimed  the  startled  priest,  in 
dismay.  "And  going  to  take  those  two  away  from 
their  own  country, — to  a  foreign  place!  What  an 
idea, — but  what  an  idea!" 

"Scarcely  foreign;  it  is  only  the  other  side  of 
Florence." 

"Ah,  ah!  to  you,  but  to  us  villagers!  It  is 
not  a  little  thing  to  leave  one's  home,  where  one  has 
been  born  and  bred,  and  knows  his  neighbors,  after 
all,  whether  they  be  good  or  bad.  It  is  a  great 
thing  to  know  one's  neighbors.  And  to  go  so 
far  !  —  but  they  will  think  twice  before  they  say 
'Yes.'" 

"  On  the  contrary,  Oreste  goes  willingly.  I  do 
not  think  he  is  so  blind  ;  he  knows  well  they  are 
not  friendly  to  his  sposa  here." 

"And  Gioja,"  said  the  startled  priest,  "will 
she  go?" 

"He  says  so." 

The  priest  drew  a  long  breath,  half  relief,  half 
regret,  and  wholly  wonder. 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  67 

By  Grace  Ellery  Channing 

"Well,  well,  it  is  perhaps  the  best  that  could 
happen.  But  to  lose  two  of  my  flock  —  and  to  leave 
one's  country  like  that !  You  are  a  strange  people, 
you  Americans.  And  what  becomes  of  us  without 
either  you  or  the  Signorina  Americana  here  in  the 
villa?" 

"  There  are  more  Americans/'  replied  the 
Signore,  smiling ;  "  and  who  knows  but  that  your 
Signorina  will  return  to  make  you  more  trouble 
yet?" 

The  priest  shook  his  head.  "  The  next  time  she 
may  bring  her  own  maid.  Not  another  girl  from 
our  village  shall  she  turn  the  head  of,  that  Signo 
rina,"  and  the  very  tone  of  his  voice  as  he  said  it 
was  witness  that  he  affirmed  what  he  knew  to  be 
false.  The  Signore  understood  and  laughed. 

"  Put  it  all  away,  amico  mio,  for  to-day,  and  go 
with  me  to  Florence.  Gioja  has  gone  ;  and  you  can 
do  nothing  but  listen  to  your  people,  who  will  deafen 
you  before  night.  Come  and  see  your  bella  Firenze 
in  her  festa  dress.  We  will  take  a  tram  below  and 
find  a  cab  at  the  gates." 

The  priest's  face  brightened  like  a  child's. 

"Ah,  Signore,  now  it  is  I  you  are  proposing  to 


68  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

Oreste's  Patron 

carry  away  !  But  why  not  ?  It  is  long  since  I  was 
in  Florence,  and  I  have  already  said  service  here. 
But  it  is  not  necessary  to  say  anything  to  my  people. 
Discretion,  Signore,  discretion  is  a  great  thing  !  " 

And  thus  it  happened  that  when  the  village  folk 
saw  the  good  father  depart  in  company  with  the 
Signore  forestiere,  they  sagely  concluded,  with  that 
sense  of  the  importance  of  our  own  affairs  common 
to  the  race,  that  the  two  had  gone  to  Fiesole,  or 
who  knew  but  even  Florence,  to  consult  the  authori 
ties  in  the  matter  of  that  unhappy  Gioja.  And,  in 
point  of  fact,  though  the  priest  was  fairly  running 
away  from  the  subject,  he  was  destined  to  run  straight 
into  its  arms  instead. 

Florence  was  all  in  festa  ;  and  if  there  is  anything 
lovelier  than  Florence  in  festa,  who  has  seen  it  ? 
The  streets  ran  over  with  bright  sunshine  ;  and  the 
Florentines,  reinforced  by  contadini  from  all  the 
neighboring  towns,  in  holiday  garb,  made  a  bright, 
shifting  mass  for  the  sunbeams  to  play  over.  Arno 
rolled  its  now  shallow  stream  like  muddy  gold,  and 
pale  golden  palaces  stood  loftily  up  and  looked  down 
at  her.  Over  her  streaming  Ways,  Florence  shook 
the  bells  in  all  her  towers  every  fifteen  minutes, 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  69 

By  Grace  Ellery  Charming 

and  at  intervals  the  deep,  golden-throated  voice  in 
Giotto's  Tower  answered  with  a  rich  hum,  hum-m, 
hum-m-m,  like  a  melodious  summer  bee.  The  stri 
dent  notes  of  the  grilli,  in  their  little  wicker  cages, 
brought  from  the  Cascine  at  dawn,  completed  the 
joyous  pandemonium. 

The  Signore's  spirits  ran  at  higher  tide  than  even 
the  bright  tide  of  humanity  about  him.  He  laughed 
at  all ;  he  bought  flowers  of  the  boys  and  girls  who 
ran  after  the  carriage  holding  up  glowing  armfuls, 
until  the  carriage-seat  was  heaped,  and  the  priest  held 
up  his  hands  at  the  extravagance.  He  climaxed  his 
folly  by  buying  all  the  remaining  grilli  in  their 
cages,  and  letting  them  loose  upon  the  grass  of  the 
Cascine. 

"Do  not  scold,  amico  mio"  he  said  to  the  priest 
gayly  ;  "I  told  you  it  is  a  festa.  I  have  come  into 
a  fortune,  and  it  is  written  that  nobody  must  be  shut 
up  to-day  or  hungry."  He  tossed  a  handful  of  soldi 
to  a  group  of  children. 

"I  am  afraid  your  fortune  will  not  last  long," 
replied  the  priest,  shaking  his  head. 

But  he  forgot  his  own  prudence  when,  a  little 
later,  they  went  to  a  restaurant,  —  not  Doney's, 


TO CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

Oreste's  Patron 

where  the  foolish  tourists  go,  fancying  themselves  in 
Italy,  and  where  the  priest  would  have  been  miser 
able,  —  but  Gilli's  on  the  Piazza.  Signoria.  There, 
it  being  a  feast  day,  and  his  host  newly  come  into  a 
fortune,  the  good  father  ate,  for  the  honor  of  religion 
and  his  own  temporal  good,  such  a  meal  as  had 
never  before  found  its  way  to  his  stomach,  and 
washed  it  down  with  glasses  of  Chianti,  not  merely 
old  (vecchio),  but  extravagantly  old  (stravecchio) . 
Golden  moments  were  these,  and  he  put  down  his 
glass  at  last  with  a  sigh  of  regret  that  it  was  impossi 
ble  to  prolong  them  further.  His  limit  of  possi 
bility  was  reached. 

"  Now,"  said  the  Signore,  casting  an  extravagant 
fee  upon  the  table,  "  where  next  ?  " 

"To  the  Baptistery  and  the  Duomo,  my  son," 
answered  the  priest,  with  sudden  gravity,  crossing 
himself,  "  to  say  our  grazie,  and  put  up  a  little  prayer 
to  our  good  Saint  John." 

It  was  precisely  upon  emerging  from  the  door  of 
Gilli's  in  this  comfortable  and  untroubled  frame  of 
mind,  arising  from  the  perfect  balance  of  the  carnal 
and  the  spiritual,  that  he  came  face  to  face  with  the 
worst  trouble  of  all.  For,  straightening  his  shabby 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  71 

By  Grace  Ellery  Channing 

hat  and  smoothing  his  shabby  cassock,  what  should 
his  eyes  fall  upon  but  Oreste,  —  Oreste,  who,  having 
that  moment  emerged  from  a  cafe  below,  was  assist 
ing  a  very  elegant  signora  into  his  cab.  Just  as  he 
got  her  safely  tucked  in,  his  eye  caught  the  two 
pairs  staring  at  him.  His  sturdy  face  blanched  ;  then, 
before  either  could  make  step  forward,  he  had  shut 
the  door,  sprung  quickly  to  the  seat,  and,  touching 
up  Elisabetta,  with  a  glance  of  defiance  whirled  away. 
The  two  left,  staring,  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Ebbem,"  remarked  the  Signore,  at  last,  "  so  the 
patron  was  a  padrona ;  perhaps  Gioja  has  not  been 
so  much  to  blame  after  all." 

"  I  will  know,"  answered  the  priest,  sharply. 

The  Signore  said  a  word  to  the  nearest  cabman, 
slipping  something  into  his  hand,  and  in  a  moment 
they  were  bowling  up  the  Via  Calzaioli.  It  cost 
a  city  cabman  nothing  to  keep  Elisabetta  in  sight ; 
and  they  drew  up  in  the  Piazza  del  Duomo  just  in 
time  to  see  Oreste  deferentially  assisting  his  Signora 
to  alight  at  the  Cathedral  steps.  He  saw  them  and 
his  eyes  shot  such  a  glance  of  stern  warning  that 
both  men  sat  stupidly,  and  the  next  moment  nearly 
fell  over  each  other  as  the  Signora,  in  her  silks 


72  CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 

Oreste's  Patron 

and  nodding  plumes,  swept  by,  —  for,  lo,  it  was 
Giqja  ! 

In  another  instant  she  had  swept  up  the  steps  and 
the  great  doors  had  swallowed  her.  Then  Oreste's 
manner  changed.  He  leaned  against  the  cab-door, 
and  turned  upon  the  two  men  a  regard  which  said : 
"  And  now  what  have  you  to  say  about  it  ?  " 

There  was  a  decidedly  awkward  silence  while 
they  drew  near  ;  then  the  Signore  burst  out  laughing. 

"You  have  found  a  fine  patron,  amico  mio  /"  he 
said. 

"What  folly  !  "  ejaculated  the  priest,  holding  up 
his  hands  and  recovering  breath  at  last.  "  Gran* 
Dioy  what  folly!" 

"  Reverendo,"  replied  Oreste,  quietly,  "perhaps 
not  so  much  folly  as  some  of  you  have  thought.  Per 
haps  I  know  what  the  tongues  up  there  wag  like, 
and  if  I  choose  not  to  mind,  whose  affair  is  that  ? 
If  it  pleases  us  to  please  ourselves,  who  is  the  worse 
for  that?" 

"  And  the  scandal!  "  exclaimed  the  priest.  "  And 
the  waste,  and  the  ideas  you  are  putting  in  Gioja's 
head,  —  the  wicked  vanity  and  pride  —  Oh,  I  told 
the  Signorina  how  it  would  end!" 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  73 

By  Grace  Ellery  Channing 

"  As  for  that,  Reverendo,  you  will  pardon  me  ; 
but  tongues  must  wag  when  they  are  hung  in  the 
middle,  and  if  they  wag  about  Gioja,  —  why  it 
does  n't  hurt  her,  and  some  one  else  goes  safe.  And 
as  for  the  waste,  —  the  price  of  a  fare  now  and  then, 
—  why  if  it  suits  us  to  live  on  polenta  six  days,  and 
take  our  pleasure  on  the  seventh,  whose  misery  is 
that  ?  I  have  never  yet  lacked  my  soldo  for  the 
Church  or  for  a  neighbor  poorer  than  I." 

"And  the  ideas  you  are  encouraging  in  her  un 
happy  head  !  —  but  I  will  have  something  to  say  to 
that  child." 

"Reverendo,"  interposed  Oreste,  sternly,  "by 
your  leave,  —  you  are  a  good  man,  half  a  saint,  and 
I  am  only  an  ignorant  peasant,  but  there  are  some 
things  priests  and  nuns  do  not  understand,  and  what 
one  does  not  understand,  that  one  should  not  meddle 
with.  The  Signorina  understood ;  she  knew  well 
it  was  neither  pride  nor  vanity  in  Gioja,  but  just  a 
kind  of  poesia  which  made  her  like  to  play  the  sig- 
nora.  The  Signorina  understood  because  she  herself 
was  full  of poesia." 

"  Oh,  the  Signorina,  —  the  Signorina  ! ' '  inter 
jected  the  priest,  in  despair. 


74  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

Oreste' s  Patron 

"She  knew"  Oreste  went  on.  "You  remember 
the  time  of  the  hat,  Reverendo  ? " 

ftlfl  remember  !  "   groaned  the  priest. 

"Ebbene!"  said  Oreste,  emphatically,  "when 
I  found  it  out,  I  went  straight  to  the  Signorina  and 
told  her.  She  was  on  the  terrace,  and  she  sat  down 
and  laughed  a  little.  You  remember  our  Signorina's 
way  of  laughing  ? ' ' 

It  was  to  the  priest  that  he  addressed  this ;  but  it 
was  the  Signore,  looking  straight  before  him  and 
smiling,  who  looked  as  if  he  remembered. 

"Nothing  would  do,"  continued  Oreste,  "but 
that  she  must  jump  into  my  cab  then  and  there,  with 
only  a  lace  on  her  head,  and  she  a  Signorina  !  [here 
the  Signore  laughed  aloudj  —  and  drive  straight  to 
Florence,  not  to  one  of  the  small  shops,  but  to  the 
great  milliner's  on  Tornabuoni,  where  she  bought  a 
hat,  —  who  knows  what  it  cost  ?  —  and  she  bade  me 
take  it  to  Gioja  and  tell  her  to  wear  it  when  she 
liked,  for  there  was  nothing  wicked  about  it." 

The  priest  groaned  again. 

"Only,"  added  Oreste,  with  the  suspicion  of  a 
twinkle,  "  she  bade  us  say  nothing  about  it,  lest  you, 
Reverendo,  might  think  it  your  duty  to  lecture  the 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  75 

By  Grace  Ellery  Channing 

child  again  ;  and  it  was  a  pity,  she  said,  to  make  so 
good  a  man  uncomfortable.  So,  as  she  could  not 
wear  it  openly,  we  had  to  find  a  way  under  the 
plate ;  and  as  the  whole  village  would  have  been 
talking  if  we  went  away  together,  I  had  to  make  that 
little  story  of  a  patron.  Once  outside  of  Vignola,  I 
wait  for  Gioja,  and  there  in  the  olive  grove  she 
makes  herself  into  a  signora  ;  and  on  the  way  home 
we  stop  again,  and  —  the  signora' s  hat  and  gown 
stowed  away  under  my  seat  —  my  little  sposa  climbs 
up  beside  me  and  we  talk  it  all  over.  And  then  the 
next  day  I  count  my  francs,  and  the  folk  call  me 
'  Birbone  ;  '  and  the  lads  think  evil  of  my  Gioja  be 
cause  she  would  never  look  at  them  ;  and  we  laugh 
in  our  sleeves.  What  does  all  that  matter  when  one 
is  happy  ? ' ' 

"And  so,"  said  the  priest,  sternly,  "you  let 
all  Vignola  think  your  wife  has  a  lover,  and  say 
nothing  ? ' ' 

"They  have  to  think  something;  and  isn't  it 
better  they  should  think  she  has  a  lover,  Reverendo, 
than  a  cappello  di  signora  ?" 

"  Surely,"  assented  the  priest,  quickly  ;  "  a  lover, 
at  least,  they  can  all  understand  ;  and  only  too  many 


76  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

Oreste's  Patron 

of  them  —  Madonna  pardon  them !  —  have  had  ;  but 
a  signora's  hat  nobody  in  the  village  has  ever  had, 
and  they  would  never  pardon  Gioja  for  having. 
And  they  have  right ;  Gioja  has  no  business  with  a 
signora's  hat,  nor  you  to  waste  your  time  and  money, 
as  if  you  would  be  bambini  all  your  lives.  And  for 
you,  a  man,  to  make  yourself  the  servant  of  your 
wife,  —  oh,  it  is  shameful,  vergognoso  !  " 

"  Pardon  again,  Reverendo,  but  that,  too,  you 
can't  understand.  If  it  is  Gioja' s  poesia  to  play  the 
signora,  — why,  Gioja  is  my  poesia.  As  for  its  lasting, 
altro !  the  future  is  long ;  and  if  we  had  others  to 
feed  all  that  might  be  different.  She  is  only  a  child 
herself  now  ;  but  when  the  good  God  sends  a  child 
to  a  child,  that  makes  a  woman  of  her  ;  He  himself 
sees  to  that.  When  that  comes,  she  will  care  nothing 
to  play  the  signora  with  her  stupid  Oreste.  All 
this  our  Signorina  knew ;  for  that  night,  when  the 
child  came  to  me  weeping,  and  saying  how  wicked 
she  had  been,  and  begging  me  to  forgive  her  and 
marry  her  at  once,  at  once  —  I,  Signori,  who  would 
have  married  her  any  moment  for  years  !  —  it  put  me 
in  trouble.  I  had  fear  to  take  her  like  that,  and 
perhaps  have  her  sorry  for  it  later.  But  I  went  to 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  77 

By  Grace  Ellery  Channing 

our  Signorina  with  her,  and  told  her  all ;  and  she 
looked  at  us  both  and  said  :  '  Marry  her,  Oreste ; 
you  safely  may ; '  for  the  Signorina  understood. 
And  so  —  I  married  her." 

The  eyes  of  the  two  young  men  met  suddenly, 
and  exchanged  across  the  gulf  of  position  and  race  one 
rapid  thrill  of  comprehension.  The  priest  looked  half- 
timidly  at  both  ;  but  perhaps  he,  too,  comprehended 
something,  for  he  said  meekly,  — 

"After  all,  I  did  no  harm." 

"Perhaps  not,"  replied  Oreste,  with  his  frank 
smile ;  "  but  that  was  not  your  fault,  Reverendo. 
And  now,  if  the  Signore  and  you  will  .excuse  me, 
that  was  the  bell  of  the  Elevation.  If  Gioja  saw  you, 
she  would  have  no  more  pleasure  ;  and  that  would 
be  all  the  more  a  pity,  because  it  is  our  last  festa 
here.  We  are  going  to  live  with  the  Signore  and 
his  Signora.  Isn't  it  so,  Signore  ?  " 

"Ah,  ah  !  "  exclaimed  the  priest,  with  vivacity, 
"  so  that  was  your  festa  and  your  fortune,  Signore  ? 
And  that  is  why  you  have  so  much  sympathy  for 
even  the  grilli  and  these  foolish  children  !  Well, 
well,  it  is  perhaps  the  best  that  could  happen  ;  for  it 
would  be  impossible  to  go  on  giving  scandal  like 


78 CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

Oreste' s  Patron 

this,  and  if  I  said  a  word  you  would  all  be  for 
taking  my  life.  It  may  do  for  Gioja,  who  is  not 
like  the  others  ;  but  Heaven  forbid  the  other  ragazze 
should  get  such  ideas  in  their  heads  ;  I  have  enough 
to  do  to  keep  track  of  them  and  their  affairs  as  it  is." 

"Signori!"  said  Oreste,  warningly.  The  two 
slunk  behind  the  next  cab,  and  from  there  beheld  the 
stream  of  life  suddenly  burst  from  the  big  doors  of 
the  Duomo,  —  men  and  women  and  children,  prince 
and  citizen  and  peasant,  and  among  them  a  slender, 
graceful  shape,  her  cappello  di  signora  sitting  well  upon 
the  ruffled  gold  of  her  hair,  and  her  long  skirt  raised 
in  one  gloved  hand  with  a  gesture  at  which  the 
Signore's  heart  beat  suddenly  faster  against  the  blue 
envelope  above  it.  So  very  excellent  an  imitation  of 
the  Signora  that  even  an  expert  need  not  blush  to  be 
deceived  by  it. 

Oreste  stepped  forward  and  flung  open  the  cab- 
door  with  ostentation.  The  Signora  mounted  lan 
guidly,  and  sank  back  against  the  cushions,  making  a 
great  rustling  of  silk.  The  loungers  on  the  Duomo 
steps  stole  covert  glances  at  the  pretty  woman.  Then 
Oreste  slammed  the  door,  took  off  his  hat,  and  ap 
proached  deferentially. 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  79 

By  Grace  Ellery  Channing 

"  Commanda,  Signora  ? "  he  said,  loud  enough 
for  everybody  to  hear. 

"Alia  casa,  —  home,"  responded  the  Signora,  with 
superb  languor. 

And,  mounting  upon  the  seat,  with  a  parting 
glance  of  mingled  triumph  and  humor  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  two  watchers,  Oreste,  Elisabetta,  and  the 
Signora  whirled  triumphantly  away. 

The  two  left  upon  the  sidewalk  remained  speech 
less  for  a  few  minutes ;  then  the  priest's  eye  caught 
his  companion's,  deprecatingly,  but  with  an  echo  of 
Oreste's  twinkle. 

"  That  Signorina,"  he  said,  with  an  indulgent 
sigh,  "she  has  much  to  answer  for!" 

But  the  Signore,  looking  into  the  distance  and 
laughing  softly  to  himself,  said  not  a  word. 


The  Appeal  to  Anne 

By 

Edward  Cummings 


THE   APPEAL   TO   ANNE 


FROM    ROGER 

WOU   are  my   friend.      Therefore  I   am  sure  of 
your  patience.      My  dearest,  yield  it   to  me 
now,  of  all  times !     This  is  a  confession  and  prayer. 

True,  I  might  dissemble  still.  Chance  lends  the 
ready  garment. 

But  I  am  resolved  I  will  have  no  more  lies.  I 
will  speak  the  truth,  though  I  lose  you.  I  never 
knew  much  good  to  come  of  lies. 

Dear,  if  you  love  me  much,  this  will  pain  you 
bitterly.  I  should  be  glad  to  die  now,  if  so  I  rightly 
might,  that  you  might  think  of  me  always  as  you  do 
now,  and  she  might  never  know,  or  be  wounded  in 
her  faith  and  pride. 

For  me  has  been  destined  the  doing  of  that  wrong 
I  look  upon  as  the  deadliest  of  all.     Treachery  is 
the  crime,  and  the  crime  is  mine. 
83 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


The  Appeal  to  Anne 


Let  me  tell  you  again,  you  tender  woman,  you 
dearest  and  noblest  in  the  world,  how  I  love  you. 
I  think  of  you  constantly,  I  yearn  for  your  sweet 
companionship.  You  are  my  dear  ideal,  —  you  are 
to  me  all  peacefulness  and  worth  and  wisdom  and 
womanly  greatness  and  incomparable  grace.  You 
are  the  pure  air  to  me. 

Dear,  it  is  because  my  love  for  you  is  the  best 
that  is  in  me  that  I  am  at  such  pains  to  make  my 
confession  absolute.  My  heart  grows  imperious  at 
thought  of  you,  and  leaps  for  the  highest  course, 
though  that  bids  for  the  supernal  sacrifice  of  losing 
you  —  you,  so  sweetly  gained!  For  you  I  should 
be  happy  to  die  now,  heart  in  hand. 

It  would  be  sweet,  I  think,  to  die  now,  to  leave 
this  black  dilemma,  to  vanish  utterly.  And  yet, 
while  you  live,  all  splendor  and  all  graces  are  here! 

.  .  .  Dear  Anne,  there  is  another  woman  I  have 
been  making  love  to  —  how  I  loathe  to  write  the 
name  —  Doris  Ewing,  who  loves  me  as  I  love  you, 
and  to  whom  I  grew  tender  just  in  hopelessness  of 
you. 

So  far  away  in  the  North  you  were,  so  like  the 
figment  of  a  fond  impossible  ideal,  and  she  was  here 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  85 

By  Edward  Cummings 

beside  me,  dark-eyed  and  sweet.  I  loved  her.  So 
often  I  said  it  —  so  sweetly  she  believed,  and  the 
habit  grew.  "  I  love  you/'  I  said,  even  when  I 
knew  that  love  was  just  like.  For  often  she  was 
but  as  a  small  craft  on  the  heaving  sea  of  my  passion, 
the  sea  that  ran  to  its  flood-tide  for  you  ! 

I  told  her  repeatedly  I  loved  her  —  and  lied. 
Was  it  any  the  less  a  lie  that  the  spirit  of  romance 
was  strong  within  me,  and  my  heart-hunger  made 
me  mad  ?  I  loved  her  in  this  fashion,  say,  because 
she  was  loving,  and  my  heart  was  full  of  love. 

It  did  not  come  to  me  forcibly  at  the  time  that 
I  was  lying.  I  had  come  into  the  habit  of  her,  and 
the  words  did  not  stick  in  my  throat,  as  lies  usually 
do.  I  did  not  despise  myself.  My  duplicity  I 
learned  to  contemplate  with  equanimity  and  to  forget, 
and  so  I  lied  ardently  and  successfully.  What  a 
bad  success  it  was  ! 

For  Doris  loved  me  dearly,  and  cried  over  me  a 
bit,  now  and  then,  I  suspect,  and  was  beautiful  and 
happy.  I  wondered,  sometimes  (forgetting  the 
reason  that  lay  in  my  larger  desire  —  you  !),  why  I 
did  not  really  love  her. 

Such  is  my  story,  as  well  as  I  understand  it. 


86 CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

The  Appeal  to  Anne 

She  is  very  sweet,  and  I  am  very  fond  of  her.  I 
seek  to  extenuate  nothing  ;  I  write  the  crude  facts  as 
I  know  them.  She  has  black  hair  and  eyes ;  she  is 
very  white  and  slender,  with  nestling  ways.  She 
is  not  very  learned  or  rich,  but  patrician  and  proud  ; 
all  agree  that  she  is  beautiful.  She  is  debonair  and 
sweet,  and  when  I  think  of  you  she  is  nothing  to 
me  —  nothing ! 

But  I  tried  to  love  her  just  in  love's  despite ;  and 
she  was  happy  in  the  main,  and  I  was  half-resigned. 
I  stifle  when  I  think  of  that. 

How  pitiful  it  all  was  ! 

Often  she  leaned,  touched  my  shoulder,  and  spoke 
with  downcast  eyes  :  — 

"  Do  you  really  love  me  ? " 

"  Very  tenderly." 

"Passionately  ?" 

"Passionately." 

"With  all  your  heart?" 

"With  all  my  heart." 

"Forever?" 

"  Forever." 

She  mistrusted  me  no  more  than  the  day  mistrusts 
the  sun. 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  87 

By  Edward  Cummings 

And  one  night  I  sat  late  in  my  room,  thinking. 
It  was  cold ;  the  wild  wind  arose,  hissing  in  the 
stark  trees.  Out  in  the  cold  sky  the  stars  shone 
white  and  multitudinous.  There  came  to  me  a 
wanton  mood  ;  I  floated  with  it,  pensive  and  re 
laxed.  I  had  no  wish  to  change  it,  but  desired  only 
to  sit  peacefully  through  the  midnight  until  sleep 
should  come,  to  lightly  conjecture  and  mildly  reflect, 
to  clasp  my  knees  by  the  fire  and  await  the  fortunes 
of  the  hour.  Life  had  grown  trivial. 

And  by  degrees  the  thoughts  of  you  came  intensely 
and  possessed  me.  That  was  the  night  I  wrote  you 
that  mad  long  letter  of  adoration  and  despair. 

Ah,  you  were  to  me  impossible  !  I  had  been 
half- resigned.  But  that  night  passion  reigned.  It 
was  my  dearest  tribute  just  to  tell  you  of  the  love  I 
had  for  you.  If  it  was  madness,  it  was  a  sweet 
madness. 

I  thought  when  your  letter  would  come  I  would 
sit  for  a  while  with  it  in  my  hand,  and  dream  the 
sweet,  the  terrible,  the  improbable,  —  before  I  opened 
it  to  read  your  kind  wording  (I  knew  it  would  be 
kind)  of  what  my  despair  taught  me  to  expect. 

Then  the  wires  shot  stupefying  joy. 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


The  Appeal  to  Anne 


"  Everything!  Why  did  you  wait  so  long  ?  Come 
to  me  now  —  at  once  !  I  give  you  all!  " 

I  had  the  message  there  at  the  street.  I  gazed 
blankly.  Then  with  realization  came  tumultuous 
sweetness  that  was  pain.  Doris,  across  the  way, 
stopped  singing. 

"  Good  news,  Roger  ?" 

"  The  best,  and  the  worst  ! " 

"  Oh  !     Tell  me  about  it,  when  I  come." 

.  .  .  Do  your  eyebrows  slope,  and  your  lips 
upcurl  ? 

I  have  written  it  all  out.  When  she  comes  (she 
is  coming  soon)  I  shall  tell  her  all,  as  I  have  told 
you.  This  is  to  be  the  blackest  hour  of  my  life.  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  to  tell  her  the  truth. 
It  is  her  right.  But  my  heart  has  so  often  failed  me. 
If  this  is  tenderness,  why  what  a  false  tenderness 
it  is  ! 

I  have  no  more  hopes  of  you  now  than  I  had 
when  I  wrote  you.  But  I  belong  to  you,  and  will 
always  belong  to  you,  just  for  your  once  loving,  even 
though  you  despise  me,  now  and  forever. 

I  shall  tell  her  frankly,  extenuating  nothing.  For 
I  will  have  no  more  lies.  On  that  I  am  resolved. 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 89 

By  Edward  Cummings 

Anne,  I  do  not  truly  live  without  you,  and  I 
crave  the  intensest  living.  I  think  of  you  always  as 
I  saw  you  first  —  tall  and  fair,  with  the  gold  across 
your  temples,  and  the  museful,  wistful  mouth  with 
its  serious  thinking  silences  and  then  its  soft  rapid 
speech,  and  the  eyes,  the  blue  eyes,  that  had  for  me 
such  exquisite  language.  You  are  repose  —  Heaven  ! 
And  I  am  in  a  hell  of  my  own  making,  and,  dearest, 
I  could  not  help  it  !  Ah,  I  am  pleading !  I  did 
not  mean  to  plead. 

Did  you  have  a  dream  of  me,  as  noble,  say  ? 
Here  am  I,  who  love  life  because  of  you,  who  love 
you  more  than  that  life  or  my  hope  of  heaven.  But 
what  to  you  is  such  a  love  ? 

She  is  coming  soon,  and  I  shall  tell  her.  I  say  I 
shall  have  no  more  deception.  I  am  yours  — 
yours  !  I  dare  not  write  the  prayer  that  is  in  my 
heart.  I  cannot  say  farewell.  Remember,  when 
you  despise  me  worst,  I  am  yours  ! 

II 

FROM    DORIS 

The  letter  sent  with  this  was  found  sealed  and 
bearing  your  name  and  address  in  the  room  where 


9o  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

The  Appeal  to  Anne 

Roger  died  yesterday.  He  had  spoken  of  you  so 
often  that  I  came  almost  to  know  you.  That  is 
why  I  am  writing  this  note  ;  you  were  his  friend, 
and  one  so  noble  as  he  must  have  noble  friends.  I 
thought  for  a  moment  I  would  ask  you  to  let  me 
read  the  letter  ;  but  I  could  not  bear  to  see  it  and 
know  that  it  was  his  last,  and  written  to  another.  — 
The  trouble  was  his  heart.  Will  you  be  present  ? 
I  cannot  write  any  more  for  crying. 

Ill 

THE    TWO    WOMEN 

Said  Doris  :  "  You  are  just  as  I  pictured  you. 
May  I  call  you  just  Anne  ?  How  long  they  prayed  ! 
I  did  not  know  you  would  come.  I  could  not 
think  who  you  were,  standing  beside  his  grave  so 
beautiful  and  tearless.  I  could  not  see  well  for 
weeping,  and  the  wind  was  cold,  and  my  head 
ached.  Oh,  the  wan  face  !  The  black  clothes  —  I 
did  not  like  the  black.  I  wanted  to  lie  down  there 
with  him  and  be  covered  up.  The  clay  was  so 
cold  and  wet.  Oh,  how  cold  my  heart  grew  ! 
Did  you  think  they  prayed  long  ?  I  was  so 
cold  !  " 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  91 

By  Edward  Cummings 

"  I  have  never  been  told  how  he  died,"  said 
Anne. 

"  I  entered  the  library,  where  he  was  waiting  for 
me,"  Doris  replied.  "It  was  near  twilight.  He 
sat  by  the  window,  looking  out.  When  I  came  in 
he  turned  and  his  face  was  pale.  The  room  was 
cold.  The  fire  had  gone  out.  I  never  saw  him 
pale  before ;  I  was  frightened  and  cried  out.  He 
came  to  re-assure  me,  and  his  face  was  so  pale  ! 
He  looked  at  me  long  and  anxiously  —  so  anxiously. 
I  did  not  understand  this  look,  it  was  so  strange. 
It  hurt  me  because  I  did  not  understand  it.  Now  I 
know  it  was  physical  suffering.  He  went  back  to 
the  window  and  sank  into  his  chair.  *  Are  you  not 
ill  ? '  I  asked.  He  answered,  '  A  little,'  and  added, 
'  It  will  pass.  *  But  he  did  not  speak  at  all  or 
touch  me,  and  when  I  stroked  his  forehead  he 
leaned  suddenly  forward,  his  face  in  his  arms,  on 
the  window-sill,  and  would  not  answer  me.  I  ran 
out  to  tell  them  he  was  ill.  When  the  doctor  came 
I  was  told  he  was  dead.  They  gave  me  his  letter 
to  send  you,  and  tell  you." 

"You  do  not  wish,"  said  Anne,  "to  read  the 
letter?" 

Doris  did  not  reply. 


92  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

The  Appeal  to  Anne 

"  It  would  make  you  less  able  to  realize  that  he 
is  —  gone,"  said  Anne,  gently. 

"  Yes,"  said  Doris,  "  and  then  it  was  to  you,  — 
not  me." 

The  other's  face  was  suffused  with  tender  pity. 
She  spoke  impulsively,  and  yet  with  a  timorous 
boldness,  as  one  who  ventures  upon  hazardous  and 
novel  ways  :  — 

"Doris,  he  loved  you  with  all  his  heart !  " 

"  He  told  you  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  He  spoke  of  you  so  often,  Anne.  We  shall 
always  be  friends." 

"Yes,  always." 

"You  are  sure  he  loved  me  so?"  The  girl's 
mouth  tremored  at  the  corners.  "He  did  not  tell 
me  often  enough." 

"  He  loved  you  dearly,"    said  Anne. 

"Ah,  if  you  knew  what  sweet  comfort  you  give! 
You  are  sure  ?  —  quite  sure  ?  " 

"He  loved  you  with  all  his  heart,"  repeated 
Anne. 

"  I  will  go,  Anne.  I  thank  you  so  much  !  I 
think  I  can  weep  again,  now.  For  a  while,  good 
bye.  Give  me  both  your  hands,  and  kiss  me." 


The  Dead  Oak 

By 

Anna  Vernon  Dorsey 


THE   DEAD   OAK 

T^HE  November  day  was  drawing  to  a  close.  The 
*  shadows  were  deepening  in  the  pine  forest  that 
lay  on  one  side  of  the  sandy  road.  On  the  other 
side,  the  corn-stalks  stood  in  level  rows  against  the 
yellow  of  the  sunset.  My  horse  limped  painfully, 
for  he  had  cast  a  shoe  several  hours  since,  and  my 
hurried  ride  through  a  thinly  inhabited  part  of  lower 
Maryland,  with  which  I  was  unfamiliar,  had  so  far 
brought  me  near  no  blacksmith's  shop.  Great,  then, 
was  my  relief,  on  passing  the  wood,  to  find  a  three- 
cross-roads,  and  a  small  house  with  a  shed  from  which 
rang  the  measured  stroke  of  the  anvil,  while  the 
square  of  the  door  was  ruddy  with  the  forge  fire. 

After  calling  loudly  and  waiting  in  vain  for  a 
reply,  I  dismounted.  Just  then  the  blacksmith  came 
to  the  door,  —  a  big,  low-browed,  long-haired  fel 
low,  of  few  words.  After  examining  my  horse's 
feet,  he  announced  that  it  would  be  necessary  to 
replace  not  only  the  missing  shoe,  but  also  three 
others. 

95 


96  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

The  Dead  Oak 

As  he  proceeded  slowly  to  work,  I  saw  that  there 
was  before  me  the  prospect  of  a  long  wait  which  did 
not  promise  to  be  agreeable,  for  the  man  was  either 
surly  or  stupid,  and  gave  out  monosyllabic  replies  in 
answer  to  my  questions  about  the  country.  A  dreary 
country  it  was,  that  through  which  I  was  passing,  — 
flat,  sandy,  impoverished,  the  virtue  having  been 
tilled  out  of  the  soil  for  two  hundred  years.  Now 
that  the  old  landed  proprietors  had  departed  to  the 
cities,  the  majority  of  the  inhabitants  were  miserable 
poor  whites  and  negroes,  principally  fishermen  and 
oystermen.  Here  and  there  one  came  across  a  relic 
of  the  past,  —  an  old  manor-house,  ruined  or  de 
serted,  the  property  generally  of  one  man,  a  former 
overseer,  who  seemed  to  own  most  of  the  country. 

And  yet  there  was  a  charm  of  the  past  over  this 
low-lying  land,  —  a  blaze  of  glory  in  the  west,  re 
flected  in  the  broad  river  that  almost  lapped  the 
roots  of  the  huge  pine  forests  that  grew  along  its 
banks. 

As  I  stood  at  the  door  of  the  smithy,  looking  east 
ward,  I  could  see  only  one  exception  to  this  sombre 
monotony  of  pines.  On  the  roadside,  in  the  middle 
of  a  dense  sweep  of  meadows,  entirely  isolated,  stood 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 97 

By  Anna  Vernon  Dorsey 

a  huge  oak-tree,  the  only  one  of  its  kind  to  be  seen 
for  miles  around. 

"That  must  be  a  pretty  old  tree,"  I  remarked. 

"  The  Dead  Oak  ?  Many  a  hundred  years  old, 
I  reckon." 

"It  doesn't  look  dead  to  me,"  I  answered;  "it 
has  a  dense  foliage." 

"  That 's  what  they  call  it,  —  the  Dead  Oak.  A 
man  hung  himself  to  it  three  years  ago,"  said  the 
smith,  with  some  show  of  animation. 

"  One  of  the  neighborhood  ?  " 

"  No ;  a  stranger  round  here.  Nobody  ever 
could  find  out  where  he  come  from,  —  Washington 
likely.  The  niggers  say  it's  ha'nted." 

"  How  is  that  ?  "   I  asked,  much  interested. 

"  Don't  know  ;  just  ha'nted,"  said  the  man 
gruffly,  relapsing  into  silence  amid  a  fire  of  sparks. 

Leaving  my  taciturn  companion,  I  sauntered  down 
to  the  road,  my  steps  turning  intuitively  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  old  tree. 

A  chill  wind  came  from  the  river,  and  a  flight  of 
crows  with  harsh  cries  arose  from  its  branches,  as  it 
stood,  the  central  landmark  in  the  stretch  of  mead 
ows.  On  one  side  of  the  road  was  a  zigzag  rail 
7 


98  CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 

The  Dead  Oak 

fence,  and  on  the  topmost  rail  of  this,  under  the 
tree,  I  seated  myself.  The  lowest  branches  almost 
touched  my  head,  and  the  dry  and  dense  foliage 
rustled  with  every  breeze. 

Just  beyond  were  two  wooden  posts,  the  entrance 
of  a  carriage-way  leading  through  a  corn-field  to 
what  I  had  not  noticed  before,  a  large  house  far  back 
from  the  road.  As  I  sat  there,  facing  the  afterglow 
of  the  sunset,  I  became  aware  of  the  figure  of  an  old 
negro  coming  slowly  through  the  corn-rows,  through 
the  gate,  —  a  bent  negro  with  bushy  white  hair. 
Taking  off  his  rabbit-skin  cap,  with  a  courtly  bow 
he  seated  himself  on  the  roots  of  the  tree. 

For  some  moments  we  sat  there  in  silence,  the 
old  man,  with  his  hands  folded,  gazing  into  the 
west. 

"Good  evening,  uncle,"  I  ventured  to  remark. 
"Do  you  live  near  here?" 

"Not  far  away,  —  up  dat  a-way,"  waving  his 
hand  indefinitely  in  the  direction  of  the  shadowy 
mansion. 

"  Have  you  lived  here  long  ?  "   I  asked. 

"  Many  an'  many  a  year,"  he  responded  wearily. 
"  Ebber  sence  I  cum  inter  de  world.  I  belonged  to 
Mars'  Brooke  up  yonder." 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  99 

By  Anna  Vernon  Dorsey 

"  Then  you  must  know  about  the  man  who  hung 
himself  here  three  years  ago  ? ' ' 

"  He  war  n't  no  man,"  said  the  old  darky  sternly. 
"  He  wuz  first  quality,  my  young  gen'leman.  I 
ought  ter  know,  kase  I  buried  him  bofe  times." 

At  these  words,  suddenly  a  thrill  ran  over  me,  a 
sense  of  mystery,  something  accursed  brooding  over 
this  desolate  spot. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  demanded.  "Who 
was  he?" 

"  Befo'  de  Lord,  boss,  I  don'  know,  an'  nobody 
else  does.  It  came  about  dis  'er'  way  :  De  first 
time  wuz  years  an'  years  ago.  Dar  wuz  good  times 
in  de  country  den.  De  quality  had  n't  all  gone  away 
an'  sol'  de  ole  places  to  oberseers  an'  po'  white  trash. 
Mars'  Harry  Brooke  wuz  keepin'  bachelor's  hall  up 
dar,  an'  many's  de  high  oP  times  and  junketings 
dey  had.  Well,  one  night  dey  had  a  gran'  time, 
a-drinkin'  an'  a-carryin'  on,  he  an'  de  udder  young 
gemlemens.  'Bout  day  de  party  bruk  up,  kase  de 
wuz  sober  enuff  den  ter  ride  home.  I  wuz  a  young 
chap  den,  an'  I  wuz  runnin'  on  in  front  ter  open 
de  gate,  bar' footed,  from  de  door,  kase  it  war  hot 
weather  den,  like  Injum  summer.  When  I  open' 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


The  Dead  Oak 


de  gate  I  scrich  out  '  O  Gord  ! '  an'  I  like  ter  fall 
ter  de  groun',  kase  dar,  wid  his  face  all  white  an' 
orful  'gainst  de  red  leabes,  a-lookin'  me  right  in  de 
eyes,  wuz  a  man  tied  to  der  branch,  wid  a  white 
han'chif  aroun'  his  neck.  It  didn't  take  me  long 
ter  jump  fo'ward  an'  take  him  down,  an'  when  de 
gemlemen  rid  up  dar  he  wuz  a-lyin'  on  de  groun' 
an*  me  a-settin'  right  hyar  on  dis  same  stump  wid 
his  curly  head  on  my  knees.  He  war  n't  quite  dead 
an'  his  han'  kotch  mine,  an'  his  beautiful  brown 
eyes  closed  a  minute,  an'  he  gasped  like  an'  died. 
All  de  gemlemen  dat  came  up  an'  stan'  'roun',  dey 
say  dey  nebber  see  any  one  so  handsom'  ez  my 
young  man  wuz,  jes  like  one  er  de  marble  statues  in 
de  parlor,  wid  a  eagle  nose,  an'  a  mouth  many  a 
young  lady  must  'a'  kissed.  Bat  dose  days  wuz  ober 
fur  him  fur  ebber,  —  yes,  mon. 

"De  quarest  thing  wuz,  he  didn't  hab  nuthin*  on 
but  a  shirt,  an'  dat  wuz  de  fines'  quality,  real  linin, 
embroidered,  but  no  mark  or  sign  on  it  ter  tell  whar 
he  cum  from.  Nobody  ain't  nebber  seed  him  befo' 
in  dis  part  ob  de  kentry.  Mars'  Harry  sont  all  ober 
the  kentry,  clar  up  ter  Washin'ton  an'  Baltimor', 
but  nobody  cum  fo'ward  ter  claim  him,  so  he  wuz 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 


By  Anna  Vernon  Dorsey 


buried.  De  parson  say  he  can't  be  buried  in  de 
cons'crated  groun',  kus  he  mus'  'a'  kill  hisself,  so  me 
an'  anudder  man  buried  him  in  de  medder,  under  dis 
tree,  right  nigh  whar  you  is  a-settin'.  " 

The  old  man's  narrative  ran  on  monotonously. 
It  seemed  as  natural,  as  much  a  part  of  the  scene, 
as  the  croaking  of  the  frogs  in  the  deepening  twi 
light,  in  which  it  seemed  that  I  could  almost  see 
that  white  face  with  its  aquiline  nose  and  large 
brown  eyes. 

"Dat  wuz  long  ago,  long  ago,"  the  old  man 
resumed,  "long  ago.  De  War  come  an'  went,  an' 
Mars'  Harry  wuz  killed,  an'  de  firs'  people  lef '  de 
kentry  and  de  kentry  wuz  like  new-made  sod,  dirt 
up'ards  ;  but  I  nebber  fo'got  my  young  gemleman, 
real  quality,  hangin'  hyar  in  dis  tree,  away  from  all 
his  people.  Well,  boss,  many  years  parse,  an' 
Mars'  Harry's  oberseer  done  bought  de  ole  place 
up  dar.  One  night  'bout  three  years  ago  dey  gib 
one  er  dese  hyar  big  abricultural  suppers,  an'  dey 
set  dare  all  night  eatin'  an'  drinkin'  like  dere  betters 
used  ter  do.  It  wuz  de  same  time  er  year,  but  misty 
an'  damp  an'  in  de  early  mornin'  I  wuz  comin' 
long  de  road  an'  I  see  a  crowd  gaddered  aroun'  de 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


The  Dead  Oak 


tree,  jus'  like  it  wuz  dat  udder  mornin'  long  time 
ago.  When  I  come  up,  boss,  for  Gord  !  dar  wuz 
my  young,  beautiful  gemleman  a-lyin'  on  de  groun', 
stiff  an'  stark,  in  his  shirt,  wid  dat  hankerchief  'roun' 
his  neck.  I  wuz  glad  ter  see  him  ag'in,  but  he 
war  n't  nearly  alive,  like  he  wuz  befo'.  De  doctor 
wuz  dere,  an'  he  felt  him  an'  he  say,  '  Dis  man  bin 
dead  fo'  days.  Who  has  hang  dis  corpse  to  dis 
tree  ?  Who  is  de  man  ? '  Jes'  like  dey  say  befo', 
1  Who  is  de  man  ? '  Nobody  remember'  him 
'cept'n'  me.  De  ole  crowd  dat  wuz  dere  befor', 
de  quality,  dey  all  parsed  'way,  what  wid  de  War 
an'  one  thing  ur  nudder,  all  gone  but  me.  But  I 
nebber  said  nuthin'  ter  be  called  ole  crazy  nigger,  — 
no,  mon.  Dare  he  wuz,  shore  'nuff,  de  same  eagle 
nose  an'  brown  eyes  an'  curls,  de  same  leetle  scratch, 
like  de  razor  done  scratch  him  on  de  chin.  I 
knowed  him,  an'  I  cyarried  him ;  none  er  dem  com 
mon  folks  ain't  fetched  him.  Dey  abertised  ebery- 
whar,  but  nobody  ain't  answer.  'Case  dey  can't. 
Dey  war  n't  nobody  lef  ter  answer  'cept  me,"  and  the 
old  man  gave  an  eerie  chuckle.  "  De  doctors  an' 
de  lawyers  talk  it  all  ober,  but  dey  cayn't  agree,  an' 
de  parson,  one  er  dese  hyar  new  kind,  he  say  he 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  103 

By  Anna  Vernon  Dorsey 

kin  be  buried  in  dc  churchyard,  but  de  people  make 
a  fuss,  kase  he  mought  er  bin  a  su'cide.  So  I  helped 
bury  him  ag'in.  Seems  like  I  wuz  specially  'pinted 
ter  be  his  body-sarvant  ;  dis  time  it's  right  outside 
de  churchyard,  an'  nobody  don't  know  it 's  him  but 
me,  kase  dey  all  passed  away." 

A  pale,  watery  moon  had  emerged,  the  wind 
soughed  among  the  pine-trees,  and  away  off  an  owl 
hooted. 

"  De  nex'  time  I's  gwine  to  bury  him  right  in 
de  churchyard.  He  gwine  ter  come  once  mo',  an* 
I  ain't  gwine  ter  die  till  den,  an'  dat  time  he  's  gwine 
ter  be  buried  in  de  churchyard,  and  he  won't  come 
no  mo',  an'  den  I  '11  pass  away." 

A  shout  came  through  the  dusk  from  the  smithy  : 

"  Say,  mister,  come  ;  here  's  your  horse."  The 
other  words  were  indistinguishable.  I  arose  and 
started  up  the  road  reluctantly,  longing  to  know 
more  of  the  mystery.  The  old  man  again  removed 
his  cap,  and  so  I  left  him,  motionless,  seated  in  the 
shadows,  facing  the  faint  glow  in  the  west.  My 
horse  was  ready  when  I  reached  the  forge,  the 
blacksmith  standing  dark  and  massive  in  the  doorway. 

"  An  old  negro  has  just  been  telling  me  a  remark- 


io4  CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 

The  Dead  Oak 

able  story,"  I  said  after  mounting;  "that  there 
have  been  two  suicides  found  hanging  to  the  old 
oak,  one  long  ago." 

"Can't  say,"  answered  the  blacksmith,  impas 
sively  and  stolidly.  "Ain't  lived  here  very  long 
myself.  Always  been  called  the  *  Dead  Oak '  ever 
since  I  knowed  it." 

"Well,  do  you  know  an  old  negro  with  a  bushy 
white  head  and  beard,  who  lives  near  the  Brooke 
House?  Who  is  he?" 

"  Might  be  old  Sam,  or  Lige,  or  Cash.  Lots  of 
'em  round  here,"  answered  the  man,  and  that  was 
all  he  would  say. 

I  mounted  and  rode  off  rapidly,  for  there  were 
still  six  hours  of  travel  before  reaching  my  destination. 

The  moonlight  was  faint  and  chill,  silvering  the 
dry  foliage  of  the  old  tree.  I  drew  rein  under  it, 
and  peered  vainly  into  the  shadows  for  the  darker 
outlines  of  the  old  negro  ;  he  had  disappeared,  but  it 
seemed  to  me  he  was  still  present,  sitting  on  the 
gnarled  root,  with  the  pallid  face  of  that  young  old 
corpse  against  his  knee,  waiting. 

The  owl  hooted.  A  faint  light  shone  from  the 
dim  mansion  in  the  fields,  and  I  pressed  on  through 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  105 

By  Anna  Vernon  Dorsey 

a  belt  of  low  pines.  When  some  distance  on  my 
way  I  turned  and  looked  back.  The  glow  of  the 
smithy  was  hidden.  All  the  low  stretch  of  land  was 
folded  in  twilight,  and  against  the  pale  sky  the  Dead 
Oak  stood  spectral  and  alone. 


The  Making  of  Monsieur 

Lescarbot's  Ballad 
By 
William  Holloway,  Jr. 


THE    MAKING   OF    MONSIEUR   LESCAR- 
BOT'S    BALLAD 

T  T  was  a  stormy  evening  of  March,  1 6 1 1 .  All 
*  day  snow  had  fallen  in  a  white  whirlwind  on 
Port  Royal,  winning  one  by  one  its  points  of  vantage, 
and  submerging  each  in  turn  relentlessly,  till  now 
the  tiny  colony  had  almost  vanished  in  the  drifts. 

Signs  of  outline  there  were  none.  The  great 
stone  gateway  at  the  southeast,  carven  above  with 
the  fleur-de-lis,  was  dim  and  shapeless  even  to  the 
sentry  in  the  guard-room  beside  it ;  the  bastion  to 
the  southwest,  its  four  cannon  quite  buried,  melted 
vaguely  into  the  darkness.  Snow  lay  everywhere. 
The  gabled  houses  were  turned  into  white  misshapen 
monsters,  and  strange  fantastic  mounds  stretched 
across  the  Square.  Even  the  flag  of  France  in  the 
centre,  beneath  which  the  Seigneur  of  Port  Royal 
stood  each  year  to  greet  his  vassals,  had  suffered  with 
the  rest,  the  wind  having  wrapped  it  tightly  about 
its  staff,  and  the  interminable  flakes  blotted  out  its  lilies. 
109 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 


The  Making  of  Monsieur  Lescarbot's  Ballad 

It  was  ten  by  the  clock,  and  the  colonists  long 
since  abed,  so  that,  save  for  the  blink  of  the  sentry's 
candle,  a  stranger  passing  by  the  guard-room  would 
have  seen  no  sign  of  life.  But  that  was  only  because 
a  giant  drift  hid  the  great  hall  of  the  seigneurie  from 
sight,  for  there  a  few  of  them  were  still  awake  and 
drinking  deep,  in  honor  of  the  coming  to  Acadie 
of  the  Due  de  Montpelier,  cousin  of  the  king. 

Within  the  long  wainscoted  room,  Poutrincourt, 
Seigneur  of  Port  Royal,  sat  musing  before  a  huge 
log  fire,  with  his  thin  white  hands  spread  out  to  the 
mellow  heat.  His  face,  delicately  contoured  and 
crossed  by  many  lines,  gleamed  with  a  ruddy  hue 
while  the  flames  roared  up  the  high-arched  chimney; 
when  they  sank  low  again,  it  had  the  likeness  of  an 
ashen  mask  against  the  blackness  of  his  silken  doublet. 
He  was  clad  entirely  in  black,  even  to  his  ruffles. 
His  head  was  sunken  on  his  breast.  And  thus  he 
sat  gazing  at  the  fire,  his  shadow  on  the  wall  behind 
keeping  time  grotesquely  to  the  leaping  flames. 

To  his  left  Marc  Lescarbot,  the  poet  of  the  colony, 
listened  across  a  bowl  of  muscat  to  one  of  Imbert's 
endless  stories.  He  was  tall  and  thin,  with  dreamy 
gray  eyes ;  there  were  girlish  dimples  on  his  cheeks. 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


By  William   Holloway,  Jr. 


Just  now,  however,  his  face  was  flushed  and  his 
fingers  played  nervously  about  his  girdle,  for  Imbert, 
after  a  fashion  of  his  own,  was  emphasizing  the  nar 
rative  with  reckless  flourishings  of  his  naked  sword. 
But  even  then,  with  the  point  almost  upon  his  breast, 
Monsieur  Lescarbot  by  no  means  lost  his  urbanity, 
for  his  smile,  albeit  a  trifle  anxious,  was  still  most 
wondrous  sweet.  As  for  Imbert,  the  story  he  was 
telling  had  excited  him  beyond  control.  It  was  as 
if  his  wild  sea-roving  days  had  returned.  His  black 
eyes  flashed  fiercely  from  out  his  red,  scarred  face  ; 
his  rubicund  lips  were  protruded  ;  his  massive  left 
hand  was  twined  in  the  coarse  black  hair  that  over 
hung  his  forehead.  As  the  firelight  danced  athwart 
him  he  seemed  to  Lescarbot,  always  fanciful,  much 
like  the  gods  on  the  bowls  of  the  Indian  lobster-claw 
pipes,  so  broad  was  his  short,  squat  body  and  so 
flaming  red  his  face. 

On  the  right  at  a  small  table  the  Seigneur's  son, 
Biencourt,  and  the  Due  de  Montpelier  played  at 
dice;  the  one  eagerly,  as  if  mindful  of  his  growing 
pile  of  pistoles,  the  other  in  listless  unconcern.  And 
this  difference  the  appearance  of  the  two  enhanced, 
for  while  Biencourt  was  tall,  blue-eyed,  and  smooth 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


The  Making  of  Monsieur  Lescarbot's  Ballad 

and  fresh  of  face,  the  due  was  short  and  dark,  with 
glittering  black  eyes  and  a  pale,  wearied  countenance. 
And  whereas  Biencourt  was  bravely  dressed  in 
doublet  and  hose  of  soft  blue  satin,  the  due  wore 
a  black  velvet  that  harmonized  sombrely  with  his  pale 
ness  and  his  listlessness.  He  had  but  that  day  reached 
Acadie  from  France,  yet  the  sight  of  the  forest  life 
about  him,  the  fur-clad  lackeys  and  strange  Indian 
relics,  seemed  scarcely  to  stir  his  pulses.  Instead  he 
sat  in  silence  by  the  table,  carelessly  toying  with  his 
white,  ringed  hands. 

The  round  ended  and  Biencourt  swept  in  his  gains. 
"Doubles?"  he  cried. 

The  due  nodded  and  pushed  forward  his  stake. 

"It  was  then  the  English  came  aboard  us,  Mon 
sieur  Lescarbot,"  roared  Imbert,  waving  his  sword, 
"  and  I  leave  you  to  judge  how  fierce  the  fighting 
was  with  half  our  men  already  dead.  The  deck 
was  a  red  shambles,  and  in  the  midst  stood  Pierre 
Euston,  blood  from  head  to  heel." 

"It  is  worthy  of  a  ballad,"  murmured  his  hearer. 

The  due  shivered  and  drew  nearer  the  fire.  "  Do 
ballads  flourish  in  this  frozen  land  ?  "  he  asked,  with 
a  languid  lift  of  his  black  eyebrows. 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  113 

By  William   Holloway,  Jr. 

Poutrincourt  started  from  his  reverie.  "  Lescarbot 
is  a  famous  poet,  monsieur  le  due.  For  a  ballad  or 
love-song  I  know  few  to  equal  him." 

A  blush  reddened  the  poet's  dimpled  cheeks. 
"The  wilderness  is  full  of  subjects,"  said  he, 
modestly. 

The  wind  was  rising  higher  and  the  stout  oaken 
door  rattled  clamorously  to  the  white  gusts.  His 
highness  the  Due  de  Montpelier  shivered  again  and 
looked  about  him  somewhat  curiously  at  the  quaintly 
carven  doors  and  the  bearskins  and  heads  of  deer  that 
hung  upon  the  dark  wainscoted  walls. 

"It  was  then  I  came  up  from  the  lower  deck," 
went  on  Imbert,  "and  side  by  side  Pierre  Euston 
and  I  charged  together.  Ah!  Pierre  was  a  brave 
fighter  in  those  days,  I  warrant  you,  and  together  we 
swept  the  decks  before  us.  And  droll  enough  work 
it  was,  with  the  wounded  dogs  of  English  laying 
their  swords  about  our  heels  as  we  passed." 

"It  was  scoundrelly  work,"  broke  in  Biencourt, 
balancing  his  dice-box  on  his  fingers.  "  Nothing 
would  please  me  better  than  a  meeting  with  this 
droll  gentleman,  this  Pierre  Euston." 

Half  seriously,  half  amusedly,  the  quondam  pirate 


ii4  CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 

The  Making  of  Monsieur  Lescarbot's  Ballad 

shrugged  his  great  shoulders.  "  Tush  !  I  was  but 
a  lad,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  apology,  "and  I  took 
no  share  beyond  the  fighting.'* 

The  dicing  went  on.  The  due  threw  and  lost 
again  and  impassively  as  ever  filled  his  silver  flagon 
from  the  pitcher  on  the  long  oaken  table  behind  him. 
"To  your  next  ballad,  Monsieur  Lescarbot,"  he 
said,  politely.  But  the  wine  was  scarce  half  way 
to  his  lips  ere  there  came  a  strange  interruption. 
The  door  opened  slowly  from  without,  and  a  woman 
entered,  an  infant  in  her  arms. 

In  after  years,  when  alone  with  Imbert  in  the 
ruined  fort,  that  scene  came  back  to  Biencourt  with 
startling  vividness.  Once  again  he  beheld  the  long 
room  dyed  red  in  the  glow  of  the  fire  ;  once  more 
he  saw  them  as  they  started  to  their  feet  and  stood 
staring  blankly  at  the  stranger.  And  much  cause 
was  there  to  stare,  for  women  in  Port  Royal  this 
winter  there  were  none,  —  least  of  all  grand  ladies, 
such  as  each  movement  showed  this  to  be,  —  while 
beyond  the  fort  lay  naught  but  a  savage,  unbroken 
wilderness.  And  Biencourt  remembered  standing 
thus  while  one  might  slowly  count  ten. 

The  due  was  the  first  to  speak.      "  You  are  cold, 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  115 

By  William   Holloway,  Jr. 

madame,"  he  said  softly.  "You  must  drink  some 
wine."  And,  flagon  in  hand,  he  approached  her. 

But  the  newcomer,  who  was  blue-eyed  and  most 
marvellously  fair  of  face,  waved  him  curtly  back. 
"  I  have  come  to  ask  shelter  for  myself  and  babe, 
from  the  lord  of  the  seigneurie,  monsieur,  not  to 
drink  wine."  Then,  pausing  as  if  for  breath,  she 
stood  erect  beside  the  door,  slender  and  lissome,  a 
multitude  of  snow-flakes  slowly  melting  in  the  red- 
gold  of  her  hair. 

For  a  moment  Poutrincourt  was  silent.  Idly  his 
thoughts  travelled  the  endless  forest  wastes  of  Acadie, 
snow-clad  and  inhospitable,  where,  this  winter  of 
161 1,  was  no  white  settlement  beside  his  own.  He 
had  even  passed  up  the  great  river  to  Quebec,  where 
his  friend  Captain  Samuel  Champlain  had  three 
years  before  planted  the  banner  of  the  fleur-de-lis, 
when  with  a  start  he  became  aware  the  woman's 
eyes  were  fixed  haughtily  upon  him.  Then,  mind 
ful  of  his  duty,  he  stepped  forward,  bowing  low, 
and  bade  her  welcome  to  his  seigneurie  of  Port 
Royal,  brushing  the  snow  from  her  long  fur  mantle 
with  his  own  white  hands.  And  in  an  instant  more 
the  stranger  was  ensconced  in  a  chair  before  the  fire. 


n6  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

The  Making  of  Monsieur  Lescarbot's  Ballad 

Biencourt  and  the  due  resumed  their  gaming, 
Monsieur  Lescarbot  took  out  his  tablets  preparatory 
to  verse-making,  and  Imbert  busied  himself  mulling 
wine  for  the  conclusion  of  the  evening*  s  potations, 
which  in  Port  Royal  were  wont  to  be  of  the  deepest. 
But  no  one  ventured  to  mar  the  hospitality  of  Port 
Royal  with  a  question,  and  the  newcomer  proved 
more  taciturn  than  would  have  been  expected  from 
the  laughing  curves  of  her  lips,  sitting  moment  after 
moment  silent  in  the  glow  of  the  fire. 

The  wind  still  battered  at  the  door  and  muttered 
angrily  in  the  chimney,  but  to  Biencourt  the  room 
was  filled  with  a  new  light  —  a  strange  radiance  that 
seemed  to  emanate  from  the  stranger's  golden  head 
or  the  crimson  kirtle  which  she  wore.  He  forgot 
his  game.  He  watched  only  her  drooping  lashes, 
with  a  vague  hope  that  soon  she  might  raise  them. 
And  as  he  watched,  the  pile  of  money  before  him 
lessened  rapidly. 

"I  fear  you  bring  me  ill-luck,  madame,"  he 
cried  at  last,  ruefully  smiling  toward  her.  "  These 
pistoles  have  a  sorry  trick  of  vanishing  since  you 
came." 

The  stranger  raised  her  lashes,  as  he  had   hoped. 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  117 

By  William   Holloway,  Jr. 

She  smiled  back  responsively,  and  her  eyes  caught 
an  amber  light  from  the  leaping  flames.  "  Would 
you  turn  me  into  the  night  again  ? '  *  she  asked, 
jestingly,  yet  with  a  strange  inflection  in  her  voice  as 
though  speaking  to  some  one  far  away. 

Biencourt  shook  his  head.  "  This  may  bring  me 
fortune,"  he  said,  in  eager  tones.  And  rising  and 
striding  to  her  side,  he  stooped  down  and  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross  above  the  baby's  forehead  —  a  simple 
superstition,  but  evidently  not  to  the  newcomer's 
liking,  for  she  said  with  some  hauteur,  "  I,  monsieur, 
am  of  the  reformed  faith,"  and  leaned  back  coldly 
in  her  chair. 

"  Methinks,  madame,  you  cannot  have  journeyed 
far,"  broke  in  Poutrincourt,  who  had  been  staring 
into  the  fire.  "  Your  cloak  had  little  snow  for 
much  travel,  and,  besides,  there  was  the  babe." 

Madame' s  face  lost  its  haughtiness,  and  she  smiled 
once  more. 

Poutrincourt  rubbed  his  slender  hands  softly  to 
gether.  "  All  about  us  is  the  endless  forest,  and  lo ! 
as  if  by  magic  you  appear  !  Are  you  sure  there  be 
no  witchcraft  in  it  ?  " 

The  stranger's  laugh  rang  through  the  hall,  dying 


n8  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

The  Making  of  Monsieur  Lescarbot's  Ballad 

faintly  amid  the  armor  in  the  far  corner.  "  Mayhap 
I  sailed  hither  in  some  sea-rover  from  the  Spanish 
lands,  or  perhaps  "  —  and  here  she  smiled  demurely 
—  "I  hid  myself  in  yonder  vessel  that  this  day  came 
from  France.  Perchance  I  dared  the  drifts  alone,  or 
I  may  have  bribed  some  of  the  red  savages  to  carry 
me.  But  where'er  I  came  from,  the  sentry  at  the 
gate  is  not  to  blame.  The  night  is  dark,  and  the 
snow  has  heaped  an  easy  road  from  outside  over  the 
bastion." 

"I  am  waiting,  Monsieur  Biencourt,"  broke  in 
the  due,  with  an  impatient  glance  at  his  opponent, 
who  was  still  standing  by  the  stranger  lady's  side. 
There  was  such  anger  in  his  tone  that  the  other 
men,  remembering  his  former  listlessness,  glanced 
curiously  at  him. 

His  pale  face  was  even  paler  than  before ;  tiny 
drops  of  moisture  glittered  on  his  forehead ;  one 
hand  was  clenched  above  his  winnings,  in  the  other 
his  dice-box  trembled.  "  Does  he  love  his  pistoles 
after  all?"  thought  the  poet,  pausing  in  his  poem. 
The  wine  was  mulled  at  last  and  the  goblets  filled. 
The  Seigneur  of  Port  Royal  drank  slowly  and  re 
flectively,  in  small  sips,  glancing  alternately  from  the 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  119 

By  William  Holloway,  Jr. 

fair-haired  mother  to  her  dark-eyed,  cooing  child. 
"I  have  thought  about  your  lodging,  madame,"  he 
said  at  last,  tilting  his  goblet  to  and  fro. 

"  Here  you  would  have  no  rest,  else  I  would  give 
you  my  own  apartments.  This  evening  we  are  some 
thing  quieter  than  usual,  but  oftener  the  noise  of 
revelling  disturbs  the  forest  far  into  the  night.  The 
hall  is  full  of  men  in  leathern  hunting  suits,  the  red 
savages  sit  smoking  by  the  fire,  there  is  gaming  and 
wine-drinking,  and  in  the  intervals  we  sing  the  songs 
of  France.  But  without  the  fort,  a  half-mile  beyond 
the  gate,  are  two  disused  huts.  One  of  these  I  give 
you  to  inhabit.  And  that  you  suffer  insult  from 
none,  a  protector  shall  go  with  you,  who  shall  answer 
for  your  honor  with  his  own.  There  be  two  huts, 
and  each  shall  have  one.  But  this  night  you  will 
lodge  here." 

The  stranger  leaned  forward.  Her  slender  fingers 
touched  his  arm.  "  You  have  forgotten  to  name  the 
one  who  is  to  guard  me,"  she  said  hastily,  a  curious 
thrill  vibrating  through  her  voice. 

The  Seigneur  pointed  at  Biencourt,  and  her  face, 
which  had  seemed  strained  and  eager,  relaxed  again. 
"We  shall  be  brave  allies,  shall  we  not?"  she 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


The  Making  of  Monsieur  Lescarbot's  Ballad 

cried,  turning  her  blue  eyes  toward  him.  Biencourt 
laughed.  "None  better, "  he  responded  in  great 
good-humor. 

The  storm  was  growing  fiercer  as  the  night  went 
on.  The  door  rattled  more  noisily,  and  the  flames 
in  the  great  chimney  waved  to  and  fro  in  the  sudden 
gusts.  The  space  on  the  other  side  of  the  table, 
feebly  lit  by  two  candles  in  brazen  candlesticks, 
became  a  battleground  of  shadows  from  the  group 
before  the  fire.  The  stranger  lady,  seeming  not  to 
mind  the  storm,  looked  dreamily  about  her  at  the 
strange  antlers  on  the  walls,  and  at  the  motto  of  the 
lords  of  Port  Royal,  carved  above  the  oaken  mantel, 
shielding  her  baby's  face  the  while  from  the  glare  of 
the  flames.  Presently  her  eyes  met  Biencourt' s. 

"  You  are  brave  ;  is  it  not  so  ?  "  she  asked,  with 
a  laugh  and  a  toss  of  her  head  that  spread  her  golden 
hair  in  sunshine  over  her  shoulders. 

Imbert  answered  in  his  place.  "  Very  brave,  and 
a  fine  swordsman!"  cried  the  old  pirate,  while  his 
black  eyes  flashed.  "All  Port  Royal  knows  the 
young  admiral  and  his  famous  wrist- play." 

"Admiral!"  Again  the  blue  eyes  looked  into 
his,  and  again  Biencourt  had  the  same  strange  feeling, 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 


By  William  Holloway,  Jr. 


as  if  the  speaker's  thoughts  were  far  away,  and  she 
were  merely  toying  with  the  words. 

"Aye!"  went  on  Imbert,  coming  nearer,  and 
laying  his  monstrous  hands  upon  the  mantel,  "  the 
late  King  Henry  made  him  an  admiral  for  these 
waters  months  ere  his  martyrdom,  and  since  then 
he  has  swept  the  freebooters  from  the  coast." 

His  highness  the  Due  de  Montpelier  leaned  lazily 
backward  in  his  chair,  raising  his  black  eyebrows. 
"So  my  good  cousin,  Henry  of  Navarre,  chose  for 
his  admirals  beardless  boys!"  he  said  very  softly 
and  very  languidly. 

There  was  an  instant  hush  throughout  the  room, 
in  which  the  clatter  of  the  door  rose  almost  to  a 
scream.  Imbert  drew  in  his  breath  with  a  sharp, 
hissing  sound  ;  the  poet  looked  up  from  his  tablets, 
and  Poutrincourt  from  the  fire.  These  latter  were 
just  in  time  to  see  Biencourt  leap  to  his  feet  and  draw 
his  sword,  and  almost  before  they  understood  the 
cause  the  fight  had  begun. 

The  first  of  the  encounter  was  much  in  the  due's 
favor.  He  fenced  so  strongly  behind  a  certain  affec 
tation  of  disdain,  and  his  thrusts  came  so  subtly  home, 
that,  ere  five  minutes  had  passed,  Biencourt  was  bleed- 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


The  Making  of  Monsieur  Lescarbot's  Ballad 

ing  from  a  wound  in  his  left  shoulder.  The  due 
lowered  his  sword  and  surveyed  his  opponent.  "Are 
you  satisfied,  monsieur  ?  "  he  asked  placidly. 

"  Not  yet !  "  cried  Biencourt,  angrily. 

Imbert  drew  near  and  examined  the  wound.  "A 
scratch  !  "  he  called,  contemptuously.  Then,  with  a 
warning  look,  he  lounged  back  to  his  position  by  the 
mantel.  The  room  was  very  still  as  the  two  faced 
each  other  again,  —  the  due,  dark  and  pale;  Bien 
court,  with  a  crimson  flush  upon  his  cheeks. 

There  was  the  same  writhing  of  swords,  the 
same  chilly  music  of  steel,  and  once  again  the  duel 
lists  swayed  to  and  fro.  Then  for  the  second 
time  the  due's  sword  found  its  mark;  this  time  not 
far  below  the  heart. 

Biencourt  leaned  back,  ashen  white,  upon  Lescar 
bot's  shoulder.  His  blood  flowed  fast  and  his  eyes 
were  closed  as  if  in  pain.  The  due  himself  ap 
proached  and  surveyed  him,  leaning  the  while  a 
trifle  wearily  upon  his  sword,  for  the  last  bout  had 
been  a  fierce  one. 

"  It  was  a  brave  fight,"  he  said  slowly. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  Biencourt's  blue  eyes 
opened.  "  Can  you  stay  the  bleeding  ?  "  he  asked 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  123 

By  William  Holloway,  Jr. 

huskily  of  Imbert,  who  with  the  deftness  of  an  old 
campaigner  was  binding  a  mass  of  soft  cloths  about 
the  wound. 

Imbert  nodded. 

"  Then  a  moment  more  and  I  am  ready/' 

"  But,  monsieur,"  the  due  courteously  interposed, 
"  your  wound  is  deep  and  you  have  already  done 
enough  for  honor.  Believe  me  you  have  this  night 
shown  a  swordsmanship  I  never  saw  before  —  I  who 
have  met  and  conquered  every  maitre  d1  armes  in 
France.  It  was  but  by  using  all  my  skill  I  touched 
you." 

But  with  the  due's  insult  still  rankling  at  his  heart 
Biencourt  was  in  no  mood  for  fine  speeches.  "  I 
can  try  once  more,"  he  answered  rather  grimly, 
"and  I  warn  you  to  be  on  your  guard.  Let  no 
gleam  of  the  stranger's  golden  hair  tempt  you  from 
your  watchfulness,  or  ill  may  well  betide  you." 

At  this  the  due's  pale  face  flushed  and  he  shook 
his  head  in  fiercest  anger.  But  he  spoke  no  word. 
Then  the  two  faced  each  other  again. 

Poutrincourt's  oval  face  was  gray  and  haggard  ; 
Lescarbot  looked  on  half  eagerly,  half  sullenly  ; 
Imbert,  his  hands  twined  in  his  shaggy  black  hair, 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


The  Making  of  Monsieur  Lescarbot's  Ballad 

alone  was  imperturbable.  And  at  one  side,  with 
head  averted,  the  stranger  leaned  idly  in  her  chair, 
smoothing  her  baby's  forehead  with  her  hand. 

This  time  there  was  no  respite.  The  two  pressed 
each  other  fiercely,  their  swords  flashing  in  the 
candlelight  like  twin  twining  snakes.  To  and  fro 
they  swayed  ;  a  dozen  times  each  saved  his  life  as 
by  a  miracle  ;  their  breath  came  in  quick  and  quicker 
gasps,  and  still  they  fought  on.  The  due's  face  was 
now  fiery  red  with  passion,  and  it  was  evident  no 
thought  of  mercy  lingered  in  his  mind.  And  for 
the  first  time  he  became  uncertain  of  the  result,  for 
Biencourt  was  fighting  with  a  dogged  persistence  that 
boded  ill.  Try  as  he  would,  his  thrusts  were  par 
ried  so  that  presently  he  began  half  doubtfully  to 
wonder  if  at  last  he  had  met  his  equal.  And  while 
these  thoughts  lingered  in  his  mind,  giving  to  his 
wounded  adversary's  face  a  look  of  pale  foreboding, 
the  infant  in  the  stranger's  arms  began  crying  shrilly. 
For  an  instant  the  due  glanced  hastily  toward  the 
chair  in  which  she  sat,  his  guard  failed,  and  Bien 
court,  fainting  from  loss  of  blood,  ran  him  through 
the  chest. 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  125 

By  William  Holloway,  Jr. 

It  was  months  ere  Biencourt  and  the  Due  de 
Montpelier  met  again.  Then  one  June  afternoon, 
when  Acadie  lay  in  a  yellow  swoon,  the  due  ap 
peared  before  the  two  solitary  huts,  leaning  heavily 
on  a  stick. 

"We  shall  not  quarrel  again,  I  hope,"  he  said 
gayly,  bowing  to  Biencourt,  who  was  lounging  in 
the  shadow  of  the  forest.  "  Of  a  truth  I  have  no 
mind  to  stay  longer  in  bed.  And  I  have  come, 
monsieur,  both  to  make  amends  for  my  discourtesy 
on  the  evening  of  our  meeting,  and  to  beg  the  honor 
of  your  friendship." 

And  having  thus  spoken,  he  bowed  low  again  and 
waited,  a  short  yet  stately  figure  set  against  a  back 
ground  of  deep  green  spruce.  But  his  face,  as  Bien 
court  sprang  forward  to  grasp  his  hand,  showed 
haggard  and  drawn  as  if  through  pain. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  a  strange  friendship. 
Lescarbot  had  turned  the  duel  into  a  ballad  of  Hom 
eric  proportions,  variegated  here  and  there  with 
choice  allusions  to  the  ''listless  lady  by  the  fire." 
This  the  two  read  together,  seated  side  by  side  on  a 
rustic  seat  Imbert  had  arranged  in  the  shadow  —  all 
except  the  ending,  which  the  poet,  despite  his  skill, 


126  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

The  Making  of  Monsieur  Lescarbot's  Ballad 

had  not  yet  been  able  to  fashion  to  his  mind.  Be 
neath  them  the  bay  sparkled  in  the  sunshine ;  to  the 
right  lay  the  fort,  with  its  gleaming  cannon  ;  in  the 
distance  a  purple  mountain  ridge  reared  itself  softly 
against  the  sky.  Of  this  scene  the  due  seemed  never 
to  weary.  Morning  after  morning  he  lounged  for 
hours  on  the  rustic  seat,  idly  drinking  in  its  beauty. 
It  was  at  the  second  of  these  meetings  he  asked  Bien- 
court  about  his  charge. 

"  You  have  no  trouble  with  these  Port  Royal 
gallants  ?  "  he  queried. 

Biencourt  shook  his  head. 

"And  how  does  madame — Manette,  the  Seig 
neur  told  me  was  her  name  —  how  does  madame 
relish  her  forest  life  ?  " 

"  She  is  thinner  and  her  cheeks  are  pale.  Since 
her  child  died,  I  fear  she  grieves." 

For  a  time  the  due  sat  silent,  carelessly  digging 
with  his  scabbard  in  the  moist,  black  earth.  "  One 
may  not  see  her  ? "  he  said  at  last,  doubtfully. 

"Why  not?  Without  doubt  you  will  respect 
her  honor,  and  she  seems  lonely.*' 

On  the  due's  lips  a  faint  smile  trembled.  For  a 
moment  he  seemed  about  to  laugh.  But  he  only 
repeated,  "  So  she  seems  lonely." 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  127 

By  William   Holloway,  Jr. 

Biencourt  rose  and  knocked  at  the  door  of  the 
adjoining  hut.  "Does  madame  please  to  walk?" 
he  called. 

There  was  a  reply  from  within,  inaudible  to  the 
due's  ears,  and  in  another  moment  the  stranger  lady, 
whose  plain  name  of  Madame  Manette  ill  consorted 
with  her  stately  air,  appeared  equipped  for  walking. 
The  due  sauntered  near. 

"Madame  Manette,"  said  Biencourt,  "I  have 
the  honor  to  present  to  your  notice  his  highness 
Monsieur  le  Due  de  Montpelier." 

The  due's  plumed  hat  swept  the  earth  in  greeting. 
"  Methinks  the  climate  suits  us  strangers  ill,"  he 
said,  gayly.  "  From  your  face  it  steals  the  roses  ; 
me  it  hinders  too  long  of  recovery." 

Madame  Manette  shrugged  her  fine  shoulders. 
"Are  you  in  danger?"  she  asked  politely.  The 
subject  was  evidently  uninteresting. 

The  due  shook  his  head  and  smiled.  His  black 
eyes  were  full  of  a  strange  light,  and  his  lips  quivered 
so  that  Biencourt,  watching  him,  feared  he  might  be 
in  danger  of  overtaxing  his  new-found  strength. 
Then  the  three  set  out  through  the  forest,  loitering 
along  quaint  footpaths  brown  with  fallen  pine  needles, 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


The  Making  of  Monsieur  Lescarbot's  Ballad 

or  stooping  to  gather  wild  flowers  in  the  shelter  of 
anciently  bearded  trees,  where  was  naught  but  pri 
meval  stillness. 

The  walk  that  day,  however,  was  a  short  one,  for 
Madame  Manette  was  weary,  so  that  presently  they 
found  themselves  again  before  the  log  hut,  with  its 
thatched  roof  and  mossy  walls.  Vines  of  Imbert's 
planting  were  beginning  to  twine  about  the  doorway, 
and  in  the  air  floated  the  dreamy  scent  of  bursting 
pine  buds.  A  half  mile  in  the  distance  the  four 
cannon  on  the  bastion  of  Port  Royal  flashed  brightly 
in  the  sunshine,  and  the  flag  of  France  flaunted  civ 
ilization  and  progress  in  the  face  of  the  hoary  forest  ; 
in  a  neighboring  glade  the  conical  wigwams  of  an 
Indian  camp  stood  brown  and  lonely  in  the  shadow. 

At  the  doorway  Madame  Manette  paused  a  mo 
ment  before  saying  adieu  ;  and  as  she  leaned  listlessly 
against  the  door,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  distant 
fort,  the  due  asked  a  question. 

"  Your  baby  !  "  he  cried,  abruptly  ;  "  where  may 
its  grave  be  ?  " 

Madame  Manette's  blue  eyes  were  scanning  the 
great  stone  gateway,  and  for  a  moment  it  seemed  she 
had  not  heard.  Then,  without  turning  her  head, 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  129 

By  William   Holloway,  Jr. 

she  said  slowly  :  "  It  is  buried  where  you  stand. 
Your  feet,  monsieur,  are  above  its  heart." 

Her  questioner  moved  hastily  aside,  a  deep  pallor 
on  his  cheeks,  and  Madame  Manette  went  on  calmly : 
"  It  was  my  own  choice  it  should  lie  there ;  and  my 
feet,  passing  over  it  each  day,  do  but  make  it  rest 
the  sweeter."  Then,  bowing  slightly,  she  retired 
within. 

Next  day  the  due  joined  in  the  walk  again, 
and  on  many  succeeding  days,  which  was  very  natu 
ral,  since  he  and  Biencourt  were  constantly  together. 
Indeed,  now  that  he  had  shaken  off  his  listlessness, 
he  had  become  a  most  fascinating  companion.  To 
Biencourt  he  talked  for  hours  of  the  court  and  its 
affairs  ;  Imbert  he  held  under  a  respectful  spell  with 
stories  of  his  campaigns  in  the  frozen  north,  where 
men  perished  by  squadrons  in  the  snowstorms.  But 
his  fascinations  could  hardly  be  said  to  extend  to 
Madame  Manette,  who  treated  him  throughout  with 
a  certain  chilling  disdain.  His  remarks  she  answered 
in  monosyllables ;  the  flowers  he  gave  her  she  lan 
guidly  let  fall  ere  five  minutes  had  passed.  But, 
without  a  sign  of  discomfiture,  he  next  day  gathered 
more  and  talked  on,  unconcerned.  Very  frequently, 
9 


i3o  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

The  Making  of  Monsieur  Lescarbot's  Ballad 

too,  he  made  excuses  to  speak  to  her  alone,  when 
the  morning  stroll  was  ended,  and  before  she  had 
entered  the  hut.  On  these  occasions,  which  gen 
erally  ended  in  her  abrupt  withdrawal,  he  betrayed 
a  curious  dread  of  stepping  upon  the  unmarked  grave, 
standing  always  much  to  one  side. 

The  summer  waxed  and  waned  upon  the  hillside, 
dying  day  by  day  in  blood-red  spots  among  the  hard 
wood  trees,  and  still  Madame  Manette  lingered  in 
Acadie.  Her  seclusion  was  more  rigid  than  before  ; 
it  might  be  that  she  was  thinner,  but  that  was  all. 
At  intervals,  as  vessels  left  for  France,  the  Seigneur 
called  to  offer  her  passage  home,  which  each  time  she 
smilingly  refused,  accompanying  her  refusal,  however, 
with  such  liberal  gifts  to  the  colony's  poor  as  sent 
Poutrincourt  away  in  a  maze  of  wonder.  She  took 
pleasure  in  her  seclusion,  she  told  Biencourt  one  day, 
when  they  were  for  an  instant  alone,  and  in  their 
daily  ramblings  through  the  forest.  It  had  been  a 
strange  experience,  this  summer  on  the  very  skirt  of 
savagery,  and  her  baby's  grave  had  bound  her  to  the 
place.  But  with  the  first  snow  she  would  return  to 
France.  And  so  time  went  on. 

But  after  many  mornings,  there  at  length  chanced 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  131 

By  William   Holloway,  Jr. 

one  when  Madame  Manette  was  indisposed,  and 
there  was  no  walking.  Next  day  the  same  thing 
happened,  to  the  evident  annoyance  of  the  due,  who 
paced  for  hours  up  and  down  before  her  door.  On 
the  succeeding  morning,  however,  she  appeared  again, 
looking  very  white  and  frail.  She  declined  to  walk, 
on  account  of  weariness,  and  spent  an  hour  idly  in 
the  rustic  chair. 

"  You  are  weak,  madame,"  cried  Biencourt,  eager 
ly,  as  they  walked  back  to  her  hut.  "  You  need 
aid.  Indeed,  you  seem  to  grow  ever  frailer  and 
more  weary." 

Madame  Manette  turned  on  the  threshold  of  her 
domains  and  surveyed  her  two  escorts  with  delibera 
tion.  There  was  a  faint  shadowy  smile  upon  her 
lips,  and  her  marvellous  hair  lay  in  a  golden  blaze 
against  the  white  hollow  of  her  cheeks.  "He 
dreams  —  does  he  not  ? ' '  she  asked,  addressing  the 
due. 

"I  fear  his  dreams  are  true."  And  Biencourt, 
glancing  at  him,  thought  he  had  never  looked  so 
ghastly  since  his  wound.  His  lips  were  aquiver  and 
his  words  came  from  them  with  a  strange  tremor. 

But  Madame   Manette   shook   her  head.      "  You 


i3a  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

The  Making  of  Monsieur  Lescarbot's  Ballad 

are  both  over  anxious,"  she  said  lightly,  though 
even  as  she  spoke  her  voice  faltered  wearily.  Then, 
with  a  bow  and  a  glance  at  some  wild-fowl  flying 
near,  she  closed  the  door  behind  her,  leaving  the  two 
gazing  at  each  other  with  a  mute,  fearful  questioning. 

That  night  Biencourt  chanced  to  be  favored  by 
a  visit  from  Lescarbot.  The  poet  had  been  wan 
dering  about  the  forest,  vainly  striving  to  fashion  an 
ending  to  his  famous  ballad,  and  was  consequently 
in  a  state  of  great  depression.  His  figure  drooped ; 
his  gray  eyes  stared  moodily  before  him.  And  thus 
for  hours  he  sat,  while  the  moon  rose  above  the 
trees  and  paled  the  solitary  candle  with  her  rays. 

"There  will  never  be  an  end/'  he  cried  at  last, 
rising  pettishly  and  flinging  the  door  open  wide. 
"For  months  have  I  thought  upon  it  —  the  wild 
storm,  the  dicing,  the  newcomer,  and  the  duel  — 
and  each  time  I  reel  back,  baffled  like  a  child  at  the 
entrance  of  a  gloomy  forest.  For  who  can  paint 
the  motive  that  daily  forms  itself  beneath  his  gaze  ? 
And  here  is  that  which  came  perhaps  from  far." 

Monsieur  Lescarbot's  troubled  face  relaxed.  His 
analysis  evidently  pleased  him  well,  for  he  stepped 
briskly  into  the  moonlight  flung  across  the  doorway. 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  133 

By  William  Holloway,  Jr. 

Biencourt  made  no  answer.  He  was  busy  with  a 
long  epistle,  which  a  vessel  on  the  morrow  would 
carry  to  a  certain  black-eyed  maid  of  honor  at  the 
court  of  France,  and  scarcely  heeded  what  the  poet 
said. 

"From  far  !  Who  knows  how  far?"  Lescar- 
bot  went  on  dreamily.  "  Perchance  from  the 
royal "  —  here  he  paused  and  crossed  himself 
hastily,  as  heavy  footsteps  sounded  near  by.  They 
came  nearer  still,  and  the  poet  drew  in  from  the 
doorway,  falling  upon  his  knees  in  prayer.  Bien 
court  sprang  in  wonder  to  his  feet,  and  there,  in  the 
brilliant  moonlight,  a  few  feet  from  the  hut,  saw 
what  had  so  transfigured  his  companion,  a  man 
bending  laboriously  beneath  a  heavy  load  —  a  load 
with  lifeless  limbs,  and  loose  hair  waving  in  the 
night  wind.  Then  he  knew,  as  the  poet  had 
known,  it  was  the  Due  de  Montpelier  with  the  dead 
form  of  Madame  Manette  upon  his  shoulders. 

A  moment  only  the  due  paused  before  he  stag 
gered  across  the  threshold,  and,  shivering  violently, 
laid  the  body  on  the  floor.  Yet  in  that  moment 
the  thought  of  his  broken  trust  stung  Biencourt  like  a 
lash,  and  half  unconsciously  his  sword  flashed  in  the 


i34  CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 

The  Making  of  Monsieur  Lescarbot's  Ballad 

moonlight.  But  ere  he  could  frame  the  question 
surging  to  his  lips,  it  was  answered. 

The  due  sank  down  beside  the  body,  his  left  hand 
resting  on  the  ashen  face.  "  You  will  seek  to  know 
the  meaning  of  the  riddle,"  he  said  mechanically, 
without  lifting  his  eyes  from  off  her  rigid  form. 
"It  is  very  simple.  She  was  my  wife.  Nay,  do 
not  start,  monsieur  "  —  as  Biencourt  made  a  gesture 
of  amazement.  "  It  is  as  I  say,  and  this  is  the  body 
of  Madame  la  Duchesse  de  Montpelier,  wife  of  a 
prince  of  the  blood,  and  —  a  Huguenot.  And 
know  you  not" — and  here  the  due  spoke  lower 
and  his  words  came  slowly,  while  he  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross  —  "  know  you  not  the  Holy  Father 
can  disannul  such  marriages  if  it  be  the  interest 
of  the  Truth  ?  And  among  all  the  Huguenots  of 
France  —  fierce  and  bitter  as  they  have  been  and 
are  —  is  there  none  more  relentless  than  the  comte, 
her  father." 

For  an  hour  the  due  spoke  no  word  more.  With 
his  arms  tightly  clasped  about  his  wife's  stiffening 
form,  he  crouched  beside  her  on  the  floor.  And  at 
the  table  near  by  the  two  unwilling  spectators  sat 
watching. 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  135 

By  William   Holloway,  Jr. 

Finally  the  due  spoke  again,  still  with  the  same 
mechanical  tone  and  with  his  eyes  still  fastened 
on  her  face.  "  She  came  to  Acadie  without  my 
knowledge,  by  the  connivance  of  some  of  her  own 
faith  at  Rochelle,  as  she  herself  told  me,  hiring  a 
swift  trading  bark  that  dogged  our  course  all  the 
way,  and  landed  her  in  the  darkness  below  the  fort. 
And  ever  since  our  meeting  here  has  she  been  most 
bitter  to  me.  She  gave  me  no  reproaches.  She 
was  too  proud,  if  you  understand,  but  each  morning 
her  eyes  rested  scornfully  on  me,  as  we  left  her  at 
the  door.  Often,  too,  in  the  evenings,  would  I 
wander  about  her  hut,  watching  her  shadow  pass 
to  and  fro  across  the  window.  Once  I  tapped 
lightly  at  the  door,  giving  a  secret  signal  we  had 
often  idly  used  in  France,  and  she  bade  me  depart 
so  sternly  I  never  ventured  signal  more.  To-night 
it  chanced  I  was  standing  not  far  from  the  window, 
when  suddenly  I  heard  her  fall.  In  an  instant  I 
was  within,  but  Manette  was  already  dead.  And 
now  she  is  dead,  monsieur,"  went  on  the  due,  his 
eyes  glittering  feverishly  as  he  tossed  the  golden  hair 
caressingly  to  and  fro,  "now  she  is  dead,  she  is 
mine  again.  And  I  will  bury  her  this  night  in  a 


136  CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 

The  Making  of  Monsieur  Lescarbot's  Ballad 

secret  place  I  last  week  learned  of,  so  that  alien  faces 
shall  look  on  her  no  more,  and  where  she  shall  slum 
ber  by  the  dust  of  dead  Indian  chiefs,  and  near  the 
noise  of  a  rushing  stream.  For  it  was  by  a  brawling 
brook  on  her  father's  estate  that  we  first  met,  and 
ever  she  loved  its  noises  well." 

The  rest  of  the  night  to  Biencourt  was  always  like 
a  half- forgotten  dream.  Together  he  remembered 
they  had  borne  the  icy  body  the  distance  of  a  hun 
dred  yards,  when,  weaned  from  their  recent  wounds, 
he  and  the  due  had  come  perforce  to  a  sudden  stop. 
It  was  then  he  had  left  the  due  and  Lescarbot  with 
their  burden,  and,  running  to  the  fort,  brought  Im- 
bert,  yawning,  to  their  aid.  After  that  the  journey 
was  easy,  for  Imbert  poised  Madame  Manette's  body 
on  his  giant  shoulders,  easily  as  a  mother  might  raise 
her  child,  and  mile  after  mile  bore  it  on  through  the 
waving  forest.  Port  Royal,  its  bastion  and  palisades 
swimming  in  yellow  moonlight,  was  left  behind  ; 
the  forest  closed  over  them,  dark  and  sullen,  and 
still  they  pressed  on.  The  due  went  first,  leading 
the  way  without  hesitation,  for  the  path  was  well 
marked,  though  in  shadow,  and  even  to  a  stranger 
impossible  to  miss.  And  by  this  the  others  knew 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  137 

By  William  Holloway,  Jr. 

they  were  going  to  the  ancient  sepulchre  of  the  Indian 
chiefs  —  a  place  of  mysteries,  where  strange  influ 
ences  had  their  hiding-places. 

The  gray  light  of  dawn  was  filtering  coldly  into 
the  rocky  well  of  sepulchre  when  they  arrived.  On 
all  sides  were  niches  in  the  walls,  each  niche  a  grave  ; 
and,  drowning  all  voices  in  a  hoarse  clamor,  a  tiny 
stream  fell  thirty  feet  adown  the  rock  into  a  murky 
pool  below,  whence  a  chasm  in  the  cliff  led  it 
downward  to  the  sea. 

It  was  here  they  buried  Madame  Manette,  erstwhile 
Duchesse  de  Montpelier,  the  due  praying  long  and 
fervently.  And  that  none  might  look  upon  her  face 
again,  Imbert,  going  higher  up  the  stream,  changed 
its  course  by  means  of  massive  rocks,  so  that  now 
and  forever  that  brawling  stream  flows  down  across 
her  grave.  And  here,  with  the  vagrant  spray  falling 
thickly  upon  their  faces,  did  the  due  bind  them  by 
a  fearful  oath  to  guard  his  secret  well  from  all 
save  Poutrincourt. 

Then,  while  the  sun  rose,  they  went  slowly  back 
to  Port  Royal  through  the  lightening  forest.  The 
due  staggered  weakly  ;  his  eyes  were  sunken  ;  there 
was  a  grayness  upon  his  face  much  like  the  grayness 


i38  CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 

The  Making  of  Monsieur  Lescarbot's  Ballad 

of  the  dead  face  he  had  looked  at  so  long.  Nor  did 
he  speak  until  the  great  gate  of  the  fort  Icomed  in 
sight,  when,  rousing  himself  as  if  from  slumber,  he 
said  musingly,  "It  is  the  ending  of — a  ballad, 
Monsieur  Lescarbot." 


On  the  Brink 

By 

Edwin   Lefevre 


ON   THE   BRINK 


OUDDENLY  it  dawned  upon  them  that  they 
^  loved  one  another.  They  had  been  talking 
about  mind-reading,  and  he  had  looked  long  and 
steadily  into  her  eyes  when  she  had  challenged  him 
to  read  her  thoughts.  They  realized  simultaneously 
what  had  happened.  She  had  known  that  she  loved 
him,  and  he,  that  he  loved  her.  But  each  had 
sought  to  keep  that  knowledge  from  the  other.  Now 
they  could  hide  it  no  longer. 

They  remained  silent  for  a  long  time,  avoiding 
each  other's  gaze.  At  last  their  eyes  met. 

He  said,  "  Well  ?  "  His  voice  expressed  nothing  ; 
in  his  eyes  there  was  sorrow  and  —  hope  ! 

She  shook  her  head,  and  he  turned  away  his  eyes ; 
there  was  disappointment  in  them  that  he  would  not 
show.  Then  she  said,  very  quietly,  "  You  have 
read  my  thoughts  ? ' ' 

141 


142  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

On  the  Brink 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  still  without  looking  at  her; 
"and  you  —  " 

"  I  have  read  yours.'' 

Tears  were  in  her  eyes.  If  his,  too,  were  wet, 
she  could  not  see,  for  he  was  looking  fixedly  at  a 
little  pebble  at  her  feet.  At  last  he  said,  passion 
ately,  "  Oh,  why  did  I  meet  you  !  Why  should  I 
suffer  so?" 

"And  I  ?  "  she  said.  "Is  it  not  worse  for  me  ? 
Is  not  my  sin  greater,  and  therefore  my  punishment 
heavier,  than  yours?  Oh," — in  answer  to  an  im 
patient  gesture  of  denial,  —  "you  will  meet  some 
woman  whom  it  will  not  be  a  sin  to  love,  and  you 
will  —  " 

"  You  know  I  will  not,"  he  interrupted. 

"Yes,  you  will,"  she  said,  very  gently;  "and 
then  —  " 

He  raised  his  head  and  gazed  steadily  at  her. 
Then  he  said,  challengingly,  "  You  wish  me  to  love 
another  ? ' ' 

She  looked  away  from  him  and  was  silent.  Grad 
ually  there  crept  into  his  eyes  a  look  of  hope  ;  and 
hope  was  slowly  turning  into  exultation  when  she 
spoke,  so  softly  that  he  barely  could  hear  her, 
"Yes." 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  143 

By  Edwin  Lefevre 

Then  he  said,  altogether  too  calmly,  in  too  com 
monplace  a  manner,  "Oh,  very  well,  since  you 
wish  it  —  " 

And  she  said,  very  firmly,  "  I  wish  it !  " 

Slowly  they  returned  to  the  house.  The  sun  was 
setting,  and  there  was  gold  and  nacre  and  glowing 
blood  in  the  sky.  In  the  garden  the  wind  stirred 
the  leaves  gently,  and  there  was  sorrow  in  their 
song. 

Her  husband  awaited  them.  "  Is  n't  it  a  beautiful 
sunset?"  he  said  to  them  from  the  piazza.  "I 
suppose  you  've  been  looking  at  it.  You  might  write 
a  sonnet  about  it,  my  boy." 

She  went  up  to  the  gray-haired  man  and  kissed 
him  on  the  lips,  and  leaned  against  him,  until  he 
wound  his  arm  about  her  waist,  and  she  rested  her 
head  on  his  shoulder  caressingly  ;  and  then  she  looked 
defiantly  at  the  young  man,  who  had  drawn  near. 

The  young  man's  hands  closed  tightly,  and  in  his 
eyes  there  was  disappointment  and  anger  and  some 
contempt.  "  Yes,  John,  I  believe  I  could  write  a 
few  elegies  on  the  death  of  this  Sun,  who  has  shed 
his  blood  in  his  fight  with  Night,  and  has  spat 
tered  it  all  over  the  sky,  so  that  the  angels  will 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


On  the  Brink 


have  to  wash  it  off  with  their  tears.  Sunsets  are  my 
forte,  anyway  —  " 

t(  I  have  never  seen  any  of  your  verses,'*  she  said. 

"  Then  you  may  congratulate  yourself  upon  your 
lucky  escape." 

The  gray-haired  man  smiled  good-naturedly  and 
patted  her  cheek  ;  and  she  held  it  up  to  be  kissed, 
and  nestled  closer  to  him.  Then  she  looked  at  the 
young  man,  and  in  her  eyes  there  was  still  defiance, 
and,  though  she  would  not  have  shown  it,  some 
interest.  She  said,  "I  have  heard  so  much  about 
them  that  I  should  like  to  read  them." 

"Really?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  are  reckless."  And  the  bantering  tone 
did  not  hide  from  her  the  significance  that  lay  be 
hind  his  words. 

"  You  must  show  some  of  them  to  her,"  said  the 
gray-haired  man  to  him. 

"  All  right.  I  '11  hunt  them  up,  some  time,  and 
send  them  to  you,"  said  the  young  man  to  her. 

"  Have  n't  you  any  here  ?  "   she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied  ;  "  but  they  are  all  love  songs, 
and  therefore  not  worth  the  reading." 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  145 

By  Edwin  Lefevre 

"Indeed!"  she  said.  The  gray-haired  man 
patted  her  cheek  indulgently.  This  time  she  did 
not  upturn  her  face  for  a  kiss.  And  in  her  voice 
there  was  an  unnecessary  indifference  as  she  said 
to  the  young  man,  "  Will  you  let  me  read  them 
to-night  ?" 

"Oh,  no,"  he  replied,  laughingly,  though  his 
eyes  were  serious. 

"  Why  not  ?  "   she  persisted. 

"In  the  first  place,  because  they  are  not  worth 
anything ;  and  then  you  might  get  an  impression 
that  I  really  meant  what  I  wrote,  and  that  I  am 
deeply  in  love  with  some  one." 

"  And  you  are  not  in  love  ? "  There  was  a 
challenge  in  her  voice.  The  gray-haired  man  smiled 
at  her  girlish,  artless  curiosity. 

"Certainly  not  !  "  the  young  man  said  decidedly. 

"  But  were  you  in  love  when  you  wrote  them  ?  " 

"I  really  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "Perhaps 
I  was." 

"Well,  /am,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  steadily. 
And  when  his  eyes  had  shown  astonishment  and  had 
begun  to  shine  with  irrepressible  hope,  she  continued  : 
"Indeed  I  am,  —  with  my  own  dearest  husband, 


146  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

On  the  Brink 

who  is  so  good  to  me.  Am  I  not,  darling  ? "  And 
she  entwined  her  arms  about  the  gray-haired  man's 
neck  and  kissed  him  on  the  lips  twice.  And  the 
gray-haired  man  laughed  and  looked  pleased. 

The  young  man's  face  was  rigid  and  very  pale. 
In  the  dusk  they  could  not  see  that  his  lips  were 
twitching.  But  she  had  grown  strangely  quiet. 

A  great  stillness  had  fallen  upon  the  world.  The 
evening  star  was  shining  very  brightly  now,  and  in 
the  east  a  little  lone  star  was  blinking  tremulously. 

Presently  she  said,  "I  am  afraid,"  and  shivered. 

The  gray-haired  man  drew  her  closer  to  him, 
kissed  her,  and  said  :  "  Afraid  of  what,  little  coward  ? 
But  come,  it  is  time  to  go  in,  my  child." 

The  young  man's  thoughts  had  been  many  during 
the  brief  spell  of  silence  that  had  preceded  her  words, 
and  now  he  said  :  "  Yes,  little  sister,  you  ought  to 
go  in  now." 

The  gray-haired  man  laughed  good-naturedly  at 
this  jest  of  his  young  brother's.  But  she  drew  a 
quick  breath  and  went  into  the  house  hurriedly. 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  147 

By  Edwin  Lefevre 


II 

THE  gray-haired  man  was  nodding  over  his  news 
paper  in  the  library.  She  had  just  ceased  to  hold 
the  latest  novel  upside  down  in  her  hands.  She 
hesitated  for  a  moment ;  then  she  arose,  saying  : 
"It  is  so  warm  here ;  I  am  going  on  the  piazza.*' 

The  gray-haired  man  started.  "  What 's  that,  my 
dear?"  he  asked,  shamefacedly.  He  feared  that 
she  might  think  he  had  been  asleep.  They  had 
been  married  but  four  months. 

"I  am  going  to  sit  on  the  piazza  ;  it's  cooler," 
she  said. 

"  Is  Dick  there  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"All  right,  then.  But  don't  stay  too  long;  the 
night  air  is  not  good  for  you."  It  certainly  was  not 
good  for  him,  so  he  remained  in  the  library  nodding 
over  his  newspaper. 

She  went  to  the  piazza.  Sitting  on  the  veranda- 
rail,  the  young  man  was  smoking.  At  the  sound  of 
her  steps  he  started  up  eagerly ;  but  when  she  was 


148  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

On  the  Brink 

near  him,  his  eyes  showed  nothing,  his  face  was 
calm. 

"A  beautiful  night,  is  n't  it  ?  "   said  she. 

"  Yes,"  he  acquiesced.  He  stifled  a  yawn  osten 
tatiously.  Then,  as  though  the  thought  had  just 
struck  him,  "  Shall  I  fetch  you  a  chair  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,  thanks;  I  am  going  upstairs  shortly," 
she  said,  with  indifference . 

"  Shall  I  fetch  you  a  chair  ? ' '  This  in  another 
tone. 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

He  did  so,  and  then  resumed  his  seat  on  the  ver 
anda  and  smoked  in  silence. 

Overhead,  the  sky  was  as  molten  sapphire  and  the 
stars  seemed  more  numerous  than  ever  before,  and 
brighter  and  nearer  to  the  earth. 

"  Lovely,  is  n't  it  ? "   she  said  at  last. 

"What  is?" 

"The  sky,  of  course." 

"Yes." 

After  a  silence  she  said  :  "  I  've  never  seen  so 
many  stars  before  ;  have  you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  he  said,  slowly,  "there  was  one  more 
last  night,  —  mine  !  " 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  149 

By  Edwin  Lefevre 

"  Yours  ?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  another  pause,  —  a  long  one.  She 
was  looking  at  a  little  star  that  was  shining  very 
faintly  low  in  the  sky.  Finally  she  said,  softly, 
"Show  me  your  verses." 

"I  cannot,"  he  said,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"  Why  not  ?  "     She  avoided  his  gaze. 

"You  know  very  well,"  he  answered. 

"  But  if  I  ask  you  as  a  great  favor  —  " 

"  I  should  still  refuse,"  he  said,  wearily. 

"  You  are  very  rude." 

"And  you  are  very  cruel,"  he  returned,  monoto 
nously. 

"But  not  so  cruel  as  you,  — to  arouse  a  woman's 
curiosity,  and  then  to  refuse,  absolutely,  to  gratify  it !  " 

"Oh,  so  it  is  merely  curiosity?"  His  voice 
trembled  slightly. 

She  hesitated  ;  her  foot  was  tapping  on  the  ground 
nervously.  Then,  as  if  she  had  weighed  the  con 
sequences,  she  said  :  "  Of  course,  merely  curiosity." 

"  Then  you  lied  this  afternoon,  and  you  are  only 
a  coquette  ?  I  might  have  known  it !  "  He  spoke 
with  difficulty  for  his  teeth  were  clinched  tightly. 


i5o  CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 

On  the  Brink 

"How  dare  you  speak  to  me  so?"  she  said, 
angrily. 

And  then  he  answered  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  fear 
ful  of  being  overheard  :  "  And  how  dare  you  forget 
that  you  are  my  brother's  wife  ? ' ' 

She  gave  a  half-smothered  cry  of  pain,  as  though 
he  had  struck  her.  Then  she  buried  her  head  in 
her  hands  and  sobbed  softly. 

'  <  Don' t  !  —  Please  don't  —  Oh,  don't  —  Gladys 
—  "he  said.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  called 
her  thus,  by  name,  and  she  said,  between  her  sobs  : 
"  Oh,  I  am  so  unhappy,  so  unhappy  !  " 

She  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him.  Her  eyes 
were  filled  with  tears.  He  went  toward  her  hesi 
tatingly.  By  her  side  he  paused;  his  hands  were 
clinched  and  held  close  to  his  face.  He  said 
hoarsely  :  "  Don't.  Don't  make  —  me  —  for 
get  — "  He  drew  nearer ;  she  held  up  her  arms 
as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow,  and  then  the  gray-haired 
man's  voice  called  out  sleepily  from  a  window  on 
the  other  side  of  the  cottage  :  "  Gladys  !  Dick  !  " 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  the  young  man. 

"  You  had  better  come  in  now." 

"Yes.     Coming." 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  151 

By  Edwin  Lefevre 


III 


AT  breakfast  the  next  morning  the  young  man 
said  :  "  I  am  going  back  to  the  city  this  morning, 
John." 

"  Are  you  ?  When  will  you  return  ?  "  said  the 
gray-haired  man.  He  did  not  think  his  honeymoon 
had  waned  yet ;  but  it  never  shines  very  brightly  on 
three  people  at  once,  and  — 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  the  young  man.  "  I 
shall  go  to  Jack  Livingston' s  first ;  I  promised  to 
spend  a  week  or  two  with  him.  And  then  I  think 
I  '11  go  to  Maine.  I  am  told  the  fishing  is  excep 
tionally  good  this  season." 

She  said  nothing.  The  gray-haired  man  began 
to  talk  about  the  anxious  cares  of  a  floriculturist. 

After  breakfast  she  disappeared.  The  gray-haired 
man  said  good-bye  to  his  younger  brother,  to  whom 
he  had  been  as  a  father,  and  went  out  to  consult 
with  his  head  gardener  about  a  new  variety  of 
orchids  which  he  had  just  received  from  the  Isthmus 
of  Panama. 


152  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

On  the  Brink 

All  that  morning  the  young  man  wondered  if  she 
would  not  bid  him  farewell.  At  last  the  groom 
came  to  tell  him  that  the  cart  awaited  him. 

He  was  in  the  hallway,  deliberating  whether  he 
should  seek  her,  when  she  came  down  the  stairs 
slowly.  Her  face  wore  a  look  it  had  never  known 
before.  Occasionally  it  is  seen  on  some  women 
when  they  wear  the  widow's  garb  for  the  first  time, 
—  a  blending  of  sorrow  and  yearning,  and,  withal, 
resignation.  She  halted  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  her 
hand  resting  upon  the  carved  post.  "So  you  are 
going?"  she  said,  monotonously. 

"  Yes."      His  voice  was  low. 

"For  a  long  time  ?" 

"  Yes."      He  dared  not  look  at  her. 

"It  is  for  the  best,"  she  said.  He  answered 
nothing. 

The  groom  came  to  the  door  and  said  :  "  I  beg 
your  pardon,  sir,  but  the  train  is  due  now,  sir." 

"Very  well,  I'm  coming." 

She  gave  two  sharp  little  indrawn  gasps.  Then, 
speaking  very  quickly,  she  said  :  "  Wear  this.  My 
mother  gave  it  to  me  when  I  was  confirmed.  When 
she  died  I  took  it  off  because  it  reminded  me  of  her 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  153 

By  Edwin  Lefevre 

and  it  made  me  cry.  It  is  sacred  to  me.  It  is  all 
I  can  give  you.  I  am  sure  she  would  not  blame 
me  — "  She  paused  and  looked  at  him  question- 
ingly. 

"  No,'*  he  answered,  reverently. 

"Take  it  ! "  She  held  a  little  ring,  a  plain  gold 
band,  toward  him,  and  he  took  it  and  with  some 
difficulty  placed  it  on  his  little  ringer. 

"  Good-bye  !  "  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  imploringly.  His  lips  dared  not 
utter  what  his  eyes  told  so  plainly.  It  was  a  request, 
nothing  more,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"Good-bye,"  she  repeated,  extending  her  hand. 

He  took  it  and  held  it  tightly. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said.  Her  hand  remained  in 
his.  She  could  not  withdraw  it  and  there  were  tears 
in  her  eyes  as  she  said,  gently,  for  the  last  time  : 
"  Good-bye. " 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said  again.  He  bent  over  to 
kiss  her  hand,  but  she  drew  it  back  quickly.  Then 
she  went  up  the  stairs  slowly. 

He  had  resolved  not  to  look  back,  but  before  the 
little  cart  had  gone  two  hundred  yards  he  turned  his 
head.  There  was  no  one  on  the  piazza,  and  her 


154  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

On  the  Brink 

windows  being  curtained  he  could  not  tell  whether 
she  was  looking  at  him  from  her  room.  He  gazed 
long  towards  the  little  cottage.  Then,  as  he  heard 
the  whistle  of  the  approaching  train,  he  turned  his 
eyes  to  the  front,  and  his  face  took  on  a  calm,  reso 
lute  look. 


A  Woman's   Life 

By 

Anthony   Leland 


A    WOMAN'S  LIFE 

"TIE  is  dead!" 

•*•  *  "Oh  !  Miss  'Lizbeth!  and  you  alone  with 
him?" 

"  Yes,  I  was  alone  with  him." 

She  said  this  in  a  manner  which  seemed  to  imply 
that  there  was  nothing  strange  in  the  fact  that  she 
was  alone  with  him.  She  was  always  alone  with 
him,  was  she  not  ?  Was  it  necessary  that  she 
open  the  doors  and  call  them  all  in  because  he  was 
dying  ? 

They  passed  from  the  narrow  hall  into  the  front 
room  with  its  green-paper  window-shades,  its  worn 
carpet  and  meagre  furniture.  His  bed  had  been 
moved  down  from  the  floor  above  when  his  last  ill 
ness  had  seized  him,  and  here  it  had  remained,  a 
black  walnut  bedstead,  with  towering  head-board, 
which  shut  out  the  light  from  one  of  the  two  win 
dows  in  the  room.  This  bedstead  had  been  one  of 
his  few,  his  very  few,  extravagances  in  years  gone  by, 
'57 


i58  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

A  Woman's  Life 

and  in  its  dark  shadow  he  lay  now  rigid.  He  had 
been  a  stern,  grizzled  man  in  life,  but  the  sternness 
then  had  been  as  very  softness  compared  with  the 
hard,  cold  outline  of  the  face  now  upon  the  pillow 
in  the  green  light  of  the  lowered  window-shade. 

They  moved  about  the  room  on  tip-toe,  speaking 
in  the  hissing  whispers  considered  appropriate  by 
them  in  the  presence  of  death. 

"  When  did  it  happen  ?  "   some  one  asked. 

"Half-hour  ago." 

"  Had  n't  I  better  call  the  doctor  or  the  minister  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  what  good  they  'd  be." 

Another  woman  crept  in  silently,  a  shawl  huddled 
about  her  head. 

«'  I  jest  heard,"  she  whispered. 

They  waited  in  silence  for  her  to  go  on.  She 
was  the  woman  of  the  village  who  always  officiated 
at  the  ' 'laying  out"  of  their  dead.  The  reason 
for  this  no  one  had  ever  sought.  Possibly  the  right 
was  hers  because  she  so  enjoyed  the  grewsome  privi 
lege.  At  least  she  clung  to  it  tenaciously. 

"  Now,  Miss  'Lizbeth,  you  jest  go  upstairs  and 
I  '11  tend  to  things,"  she  said,  while  the  other  women 
awaited  her  commands,  half  resenting  her  cool  as- 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  159 

By  Anthony  Leland 

sumption  of  control,  but  with  a  full  consciousness  of 
her  capability  in  "  tending  "  to  such  "  things/' 

The  bare  little  church,  with  its  white  walls  and 
staring  windows,  its  stiff  pine  pulpit  painted  a 
dingy  yellow,  with  the  minister's  green  upholstered 
chair  behind  it,  was  well-filled  the  day  of  the  funeral. 
A  "  burying  "  was  not  a  thing  to  miss  without  grave 
cause.  There  were  old  men  and  old  women  in  the 
congregation  who  had  not  missed  a  funeral  within 
ten  miles  of  them  for  fifty  years.  They  sat  solemnly 
waiting  for  the  minister  to  begin  the  services,  taking 
close  notice  of  the  coffin  and  calculating  its  cost. 
Not  a  difficult  problem  for  them  with  their  long 
experience.  They  also  noted  closely  the  appearance 
of  the  one  mourner  who  sat  directly  in  front  of  the 
pulpit,  alone  save  for  the  presence  in  her  pew  of  the 
woman  who  had  come  to  her  huddled  under  a  shawl. 
This  strange  woman  always  sat  with  the  mourners 
as  though  she  felt  a  claim  upon  the  bodies  of  the 
dead  until  their  final  surrender  to  mother  earth. 
But  the  dead  man's  daughter  sat  away  from  her  com 
panion  quite  at  the  farthest  end  of  the  seat,  as  if  she 
would  be  as  much  apart  from  them  all  in  her  present 
loneliness  as  she  had  been  before.  It  was  fifteen 


160  CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 

A  Woman's  Life 

years  since  she  had  sat  with  them  in  the  church,  and 
they  looked  at  her  now  with  curiosity.  A  slight 
little  woman,  with  tired  eyes  and  dull  brown  hair 
streaked  with  gray  ! 

The  minister  arose  and  folded  upon  the  open 
Bible  his  lean  hands  with  their  great  veins  and  yellow 
joints.  He  prayed  long  and  laboriously,  his  voice 
rising  from  a  doleful  sing-song  drawl  into  a  shout  and 
then  sinking  into  a  whisper.  They  wagged  their 
heads  knowingly  in  the  pews  and  whispered  to  one 
another  that  it  was  a  "pow'ful  effort. "  Toward 
the  close  of  his  prayer  many  eyes  were  turned  ex 
pectantly  toward  the  woman  who  sat  alone.  The 
minister  was  calling  loudly  for  "  the  lost  sheep  who 
is  not  with  us  safe  in  the  shelta'  of  Zion's  walls. 
O  Lord!"  he  wailed,  "make  yoh  wahnin' 
plain  to  her  onseein'  eyes  that  she  may  seek  safety 
from  the  wrath  to  come."  If  the  woman  heard  or 
understood  his  words  no  acknowledgment  of  that 
fact  touched  her  thin  face.  She  sat  with  folded 
hands,  her  eyes  upon  the  narrow  front  of  the  box- 
like  pulpit.  Then  the  minister  began  his  sermon. 
From  the  earliest  dawn  of  the  dead  man's  life, 
through  his  childhood,  youth,  and  manhood  unto 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  161 

By  Anthony  Leland 

the  last  moment  of  his  old  age  the  speaker  journeyed, 
going  unctuously  over  the  dreary  details  of  the  meagre, 
common  history.  They  all  knew  it  well  enough, 
but  they  listened  greedily,  jealously  fearful  that  the 
speaker  might  overlook  a  single  incident  in  the  man's 
dull  story.  When  he  had  exhausted  every  period 
of  his  subject's  life,  the  minister  began  the  apotheosis 
of  the  man.  His  goodness,  his  charity,  his  upright 
ness,  and,  above  all,  his  "  tireless  labors  in  the  vineyard 
of  the  Lord"  were  dwelt  upon.  He  had  in  truth 
been  cruel  and  hard  and  mean.  They  all  knew 
this,  but  he  had  lived  and  died  "a.  member  in  good 
standing,"  and  any  other  treatment  of  his  character 
by  the  preacher  would  have  been  a  scandalous  thing, 
unheard  of  and  not  to  be  forgiven.  At  the  close 
of  his  discourse  the  minister  turned  his  colorless  eyes 
upon  the  woman  who  sat  apart.  "  There  was," 
he  said,  his  voice  falling  into  a  slow  and  solemn 
drawl,  "there  was  one  cross  which  our  Lord  and 
Master  seen  fit  to  bind  upon  the  shoulders  of  the 
brother  who  has  jest  gone  befoh  us  into  the  glory 
of  the  Heavenly  Kingdum.  A  cross  hard  to  bear, 
a  cross  whose  liftin'  he  had  wrestled  for  with 
the  Lord  Jesus  often  and  mightily  in  prayer.  But 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


A  Woman's  Life 


which  Divine  Providence  seen  fit  to  allow  to  remain 
upon  the  shoulders  of  his  faithful  son.  It  was,  my 
brothers  and  sisters,  the  refusal  of  the  only  one  of 
his  kin  to  accept  the  Lord,  to  wash  herself  in  the 
blood  of  the  Lamb,  to  join  with  those  who  journey 
onward  safe  in  the  arms  of  Jesus  into  the  glory  of 
everlastin*  life."  His  voice  had  risen  into  a  shout. 
"  The  night  is  comin',  the  day  is  almost  done. 
Oh!  let  us  pray  for  them  who  falters  and  will  not 
turn  from  the  wrath  of  God  befoh  it  is  too  late." 
His  voice  sank  suddenly  into  a  whisper,  and  the 
words  "too  late"  went  hissing  out  over  the  heads 
of  the  people  who  sat  with  craning  necks  and  know 
ing  faces  cruelly  turned  toward  the  woman,  whose 
eyes  for  a  single  instant  had  not  left  the  front  of  the 
dingy  yellow  pulpit. 

The  hearse,  with  the  one  closed  carriage  of  which 
the  village  boasted,  moved  slowly  away  from  the 
church  along  the  muddy  road,  followed  by  a  strag 
gling  line  of  wagons.  The  majority  of  the  people 
lingered  about  the  church  door  watching  the  woman 
who  sat  stiffly  erect  in  the  carriage,  the  minister  fac 
ing  her,  at  her  side  the  woman  who  seemed  to  have 
so  strange  a  love  for  the  dead.  This  woman  sat 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  163 

By  Anthony  Leland 

with  her  handkerchief  pressed  to  her  eyes  as  if  she 
must  needs  make  amends  for  the  other's  stony  com 
posure. 

The  road,  after  leaving  the  village  in  the  bottom 
lands  along  the  river,  wound  up  the  side  of  the  bluft 
upon  which  the  burying  ground  was  situated.  It 
was  an  autumn  day,  and  the  golden  haze  of  that 
most  glorious  of  seasons  in  the  Missouri  valley  bathed 
the  wide  stretch  of  country  upon  which  the  cemetery 
looked  down.  A  sky  of  marvellous  blue  spread  its 
canopy  above  them,  while  the  bright  glow  of  the 
western  sun  brought  out  in  pitiless  detail  the  dreary 
little  home  of  the  dead  with  its  crude  tiptilted  monu 
ments  and  scattered,  sunken  graves,  its  rays  enfold 
ing  with  no  mellowing  touch  the  group  of  sallow-faced 
men  and  women  in  rusty  and  shapeless  garb  who 
clustered  about  the  newly  made  grave.  They  lifted 
their  voices  and  sang  quaveringly  amid  the  strangely 
death-like  stillness  of  the  declining  day.  It  was  a 
dismal  tune  in  plaintive  minors,  and  as  they  dragged 
it  out  in  unmusical  and  uncertain  tones  it  seemed  a 
fitting  symbol  of  their  narrow,  unlovely  lives.  When 
the  last  clod  of  reddish  clay  had  fallen  upon  the  ob 
long  mound,  they  turned  and  walked  away  to  leave 


164  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

A  Woman's  Life 

their  dead  unnoticed  until  another  of  the  living  should 
pass  from  the  grimness  of  life  into  the  —  to  them  — 
greater  grimness  of  death. 

As  the  procession  crawled  along  the  heavy  road 
toward  the  cluster  of  houses  upon  the  river's  bank, 
the  minister,  his  great  hands  resting  upon  his  knees, 
his  pale  eyes  blinking  solemnly,  began  :  — 

"E-eliz'berh,  you  are  left  alone  now."  She 
nodded  her  head  in  affirmation.  "You  haven't 
much  of  this  world's  goods." 

"I  've  kept  two  of  us  from  starvin'  for  five  years. 
I  reckon  I  can  keep  myself,"  she  replied  stiffly. 

"  Yoh  father  was  well-fixed  once,  but  the  Lord 
seen  fit  to  deprive  him  of  his  earthly  treasures  that 
he  might  lay  more  store  by  them  gifts  which  is  above 
earthly  price." 

"  He  was  a  graspin'  man  and  over-reached  him 
self." 

The  woman  beside  her  sniffed  reproachfully  and 
glanced  at  the  minister  with  sorrowful  air.  The  man 
stirred  uneasily  and  lifted  a  hand  in  expostulation. 

"A  daughter  shouldn't  jedge.  If  you  was  en 
lightened  by  the  spirit  you  would  n't  be  so  lackin'  in 
Christian  charity." 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  165 

By  Anthony  Leland 

She  had  endured  much  that  long  afternoon,  and 
she  raised  her  eyes  now  defiantly. 

"I've  done  my  duty  by  him — I've  done  my 
duty  for  twenty  years  without  complainin'." 

"  The  pride  of  the  onregenerate  must  be  humbled," 
returned  the  minister. 

She  vouchsafed  no  reply,  and  they  went  on  in 
silence,  the  setting  sun  touching  with  softened  light 
her  worn  face  and  tired  eyes. 

The  sun  was  low  in  the  western  sky  when  the 
two  women  reached  the  small  house,  once  white  but 
now  a  dirty  gray,  with  great  yellow  streaks  following 
the  lines  of  the  overlapping  clapboards.  The  black 
waters  of  the  swiftly  flowing  river  were  flecked  with 
red  and  gold  under  the  level  rays  of  the  sun,  the 
rounded  hills  on  the  other  side  of  the  stream  were 
softly  blue,  toward  the  east  a  white  fog  was  rising. 
A  flock  of  wild  geese  high  in  the  gray-blue  sky  was 
flying  swiftly  southward,  spread  out  in  a  great  strag 
gling  V.  The  mournful  cry  of  their  leader  reached 
the  two  women  faintly,  the  flight  of  the  wild  geese 
was  an  unfailing  sign  of  approaching  winter,  and  they 
watched  the  black  lines  of  the  flying  fowls  until  they 
vanished  in  the  southern  sky,  their  weird  cry  grow- 


166  CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 

A  Woman's  Life 

ing  fainter  and  sadder  and  finally  dying  away,  leaving 
the  swish  of  the  river  against  its  muddy  bank  the 
only  sound  which  troubled  the  quiet  of  the  autumn 
twilight.  Two  women  with  hushed  voices  and  fu 
nereal  faces  waited  inside  the  dingy  front  room  of 
the  house. 

"  It  was  a  right  smart  gathering,"  said  one  of  them. 

"I  never  see  a  finer,"  said  the  other. 

"And  the  minister  was  mighty  pow'ful,"  ven 
tured  the  third  in  mournful  tone. 

They  looked  at  the  dead  man's  daughter  expec 
tantly.  Common  decency  surely  required  some  ex 
pression  of  gratified  approval  of  the  congregation  and 
the  sermon.  But  she  was  folding  her  shawl  care 
fully,  laying  it  upon  the  bed  alongside  her  rusty  bon 
net.  She  seemed  not  to  have  heard  their  voices. 
Then  she  sat  stiffly  by  the  window  looking  out  at 
the  mud-clogged  road. 

"I  hope  you  feel  reconciled,  Miss 'Lizbeth,"  one 
of  the  women  began. 

"I  reckon  I  am.  He's  been  awful  hard  to  take 
care  of/'  she  replied  with  her  hard  honesty.  She 
turned  her  eyes  away  from  the  window  and  looked 
wearily  at  her  visitors. 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  167 


By  Anthony  Leland 


"It's  supper  time.  There  ain't  any  use  of  your 
stayin'  with  me." 

The  three  women  arose,  angry  at  their  dismissal. 

"I  'lowed  you'd  want  some  one  to  stay  with 
you  the  first  night,"  said  one  of  them  with  a  lugu 
brious  sniff. 

"  I  've  got  all  the  nights  of  my  life  to  stay  alone 
in.  I  'bout  as  well  begin  now." 

She  watched  them  as  they  went  away  through  the 
deepening  gloom,  their  heads  together  nodding 
wisely.  They  were  talking  about  her,  of  course. 
She  knew  well  enough  what  they  said.  She  knew 
how  hard  and  strange  and  unfeeling  they  were  call 
ing  her.  And  as  she  sat  alone  by  the  window  she 
wondered  whether  she  was  all  these.  The  bed  in 
its  dark  corner  brought  to  her  mind  the  picture  of 
the  man  who  had  first  quit  it  for  his  narrow  bed  upon 
the  hillside.  She  fancied  that  she  saw  his  hard, 
thin,  yellow  face  upon  the  pillow  now  ;  that  she 
heard  his  querulous  voice  demanding  her  attention, 
upbraiding  her  for  some  fancied  forgetfulness, 
fiercely  denouncing  her  for  her  lack  of  "re 
ligion."  How  hard  he  had  been!  As  the  wo 
man's  thoughts  travelled  back  along  the  years  she 


168  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

A  Woman's  Life 

could  not  recall  one  kind  word,  one  touch  of  thank 
fulness  for  her  unremitting  care,  for  her  absolute 
immolation  of  life,  hope,  love  upon  the  altar  of 
"duty."  Twenty  years!  what  a  long  time  it 
seemed  ! 

She  passed  into  the  back  room  and  pressed  close  to 
the  little  square  looking-glass  which  hung  against  its 
wall.  The  daylight  was  well-nigh  gone,  but  she 
could  yet  discern  the  reflection  of  her  face  against 
the  background  of  gray  twilight.  How  old  she 
looked  !  How  sallow  she  had  grown  !  There  were 
great  lines  about  her  mouth  and  deep  furrows  be 
tween  her  eyes.  And  her  hair,  —  how  dingy  it 
was  with  its  streaks  of  yellowish  gray  !  Twenty 
years  ago  she  had  been  proud  of  her  hair.  It  had 
been  bright  and  soft.  She  was  twenty  years  old 
then,  and  there  were  roses  in  her  cheeks,  and  her 
eyes,  so  pale  and  tired  now,  had  been  blue  and  fresh 
then.  She  wondered  if  she  had  wept  their  color 
and  their  brightness  away.  Perhaps  that  was  the 
reason  no  tears  were  left  for  her  father.  She  had 
shed  them  all  long  ago  for  the  man  whom  she  had 
loved  and  given  up. 

She  did  not  return  to  the  front  room  where  the 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  169 

By  Anthony  Leland 

great  bed  loomed  so  weirdly  in  the  gloom,  but  sat 
by  the  one  window  in  the  little  back  room,  half 
kitchen,  half  dining-room,  looking  out  upon  the  river 
growing  blacker  and  colder  in  the  falling  night  as  it 
flowed  from  out  of  the  west  where  a  rapidly  dimin 
ishing,  dull  red  streak  marked  the  track  of  the  van 
ished  sun. 

Twenty  years  since  her  mother  died  and  her  sis 
ter,  selfish  in  her  new  life  as  a  wife,  had  said  that 
'Lizbeth's  duty  lay  in  their  father's  house.  He 
might  marry  again  or  die  in  a  few  years.  Surely  it 
was  not  so  hard  for  a  young  girl  to  wait.  So  she 
had  waited,  her  lover  fretting  as  lovers  will,  until 
one  day  she  had  awakened  to  the  fact  that  a  man's 
patience  is  not  like  a  woman's.  There  had  been  one 
awful  night  which  she  remembered  after  all  these 
years  with  a  shudder.  A  night  when,  for  the  first 
and  only  time  in  her  hard  life,  she  had  turned  hotly 
upon  the  stern  old  man  and  told  him  of  her  love  and 
of  her  wrecked  girlhood,  praying  wildly  for  some 
help,  for  some  sympathy.  She  caught  her  breath 
sharply  now  as  she  recalled  her  father's  bitter  words. 
That  same  night  her  lover  left.  Fifteen  years  had 
come  and  gone  since  then.  The  great  world  had 


1 70  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

A  Woman's  Life 

taken  him,  and  whether  he  lived  or  had  been  claimed 
again  by  mother  earth  the  woman  who  sat  and 
dreamed  of  the  past  alone  in  the  dusk  knew  naught 
of  him.  She  had  practised  a  woman's  faithfulness; 
she  had  reaped  a  woman's  hard  reward.  After 
wards  her  sister  died  and  left  to  her  care  a  blue-eyed 
babe.  How  she  had  poured  out  upon  that  baby  boy 
the  pent  up  mother-love  within  her.  But  the  gods 
in  their  wisdom  had  taken  him  too.  In  this  still 
night  as  she  lived  over  again  the  years  which  were 
gone,  she  seemed  to  feel  the  clasp  of  those  baby  arms 
about  her  neck  and  to  hear  the  crooning  of  that  soft 
baby  voice. 

And  then  came  the  long  years  of  her  father's  ill 
ness  when  she  knew  no  moment  of  rest  or  peace. 
It  had  been  a  long  struggle  between  a  loveless  woman 
on  one  side  and  gaunt  starvation  upon  the  other  with 
out  one  word  of  gratitude  to  strengthen  her.  And 
they  called  her  hard  because  she  could  not  weep  ! 
She  looked  at  her  hands,  holding  them  up  close  to 
her  face.  How  misshapen  and  ugly  from  toil  they 
were! 

It  was  quite  dark  now  and  the  river  murmured 
strangely  under  the  wind  which  was  creeping  down 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  171 

By  Anthony  Leland 

from  the  north.  Her  hands  fell  back  into  her  lap 
and  two  great  tears  coursed  slowly  down  her  worn 
face  —  not  for  the  man  who  lay  under  the  stars  in 
the  little  cemetery  on  the  hill,  but  for  her  own  van 
ished  youth  and  love  and  hope. 


"When  the  King 

Comes  In  " 
By 
Anthony  Leland 


"WHEN   THE   KING   COMES   IN" 

O  HE  slunk  along  in  the  shadows  listlessly,  staring 
^  with  unheeding  eyes  at  the  shuffling  crowds 
upon  the  sidewalks,  at  the  fly-blown,  tawdry  splendors 
of  the  shop  windows,  and  at  the  yellow  gloom  of  the 
pawn-shop.  The  autumn  wind  swept  sharply  up 
from  the  river,  and  she  drew  her  old  plaid  shawl 
about  her  tightly  with  one  hand,  while  with  the 
other  she  covered  her  swollen  and  discolored  cheek. 
The  sidewalks  and  roadway  were  covered  with  a 
thin,  slippery  coating  of  mingled  filth  and  mud. 
An  autumn  mist,  heavy  with  smoke,  pressed  itself 
tightly  down  upon  the  street,  deadening  the  light 
of  the  electric  lamps  at  the  corners  into  mere 
splotches  of  a  dully-luminous  gray.  Frowsy,  pale- 
faced  girls  hung  about  dark  doorways  where  they 
bandied  mirthless  jests  with  lounging  men  and  boys. 
In  front  of  a  bar-room,  whence  came  the  fangling  notes 
of  a  piano  and  the  scream  of  a  high-pitched  soprano 
voice,  a  man  stood  and  urged  the  passers-by  to  go 


176  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

"When  the   King  Comes  In" 

in  and  witness  "the  dizziest  'vawdyville'  in  the 
city."  The  woman  in  the  old  plaid  shawl  passed 
him  without  heeding  his  blatant  voice.  She  had 
heard  his  sing-song  shout  many  times  ;  the  "  dizzy 
vawdyville  "  was  nothing  new.  There  never  was 
anything  new  in  Myrtle  Street ;  it  was  ever  the 
same  ugly,  sordid,  joyless  place  day  and  night,  week 
in  and  week  out.  It  was  always  crowded  with 
people,  but  it  was  always  strangely  sullen  and  mirth 
less.  You  never  heard  any  one  laugh  there.  At 
times  when  some  one  slipped  and  fell  upon  the  slime 
of  the  pavement,  or  when  one  of  the  white-faced  girls 
hurled  shrill  defiance  at  a  man  or  at  her  companions, 
a  hoarse  human  bark  rent  the  air,  but  it  was  not  a 
laugh.  Even  the  children,  who  scrambled  in  the 
gutters  and  crept  in  and  out  of  the  dark  alleys,  for 
got  to  laugh. 

The  woman  with  swollen  and  discolored  cheek, 
who  was  crawling  along  in  the  shadows,  halted  in 
front  of  a  dram-shop  on  a  corner,  and  gazed  doubt 
fully,  longingly,  at  its  swinging  door.  She  was  won 
dering  if  perchance  Red  Mike  would  trust  her  for  a 
drink.  She  felt  keenly  the  chill  air  from  the  river. 
She  was  strangely  weary  and  down-hearted,  too. 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  177 

By  Anthony  Leland 

Earlier  in  the  evening  she  and  her  man  had  quar 
relled.  He  was  drunk,  as  usual,  and  had  struck 
her,  but  for  some  unaccountable  reason  she  had  not 
screeched  and  struck  back  and  tried  to  claw  his  face. 
She  had  simply  grabbed  her  old  shawl  and  escaped 
into  the  street,  where  she  had  wandered  about  for  an 
hour.  It  was  very  odd  that  she  had  acted  thus,  and 
now  she  was  shamefaced  about  asking  Red  Mike  for 
a  drink  of  whiskey  !  He  got  all  their  meagre  earn 
ings,  anyway,  did  Red  Mike,  and  he  was  usually 
easy  enough  about  donating  a  dram  or  two  when 
they  were  down  in  their  luck,  and  heretofore  she 
hadn't  minded  asking  him.  And  if  he  chanced  to 
refuse,  she  eased  her  mind  by  a  good  mouthful  of 
curses,  which  she  spat  at  him  like  a  cat.  But  to 
night  she  was  foolishly  squeamish  about  asking  him ; 
she  feared  the  loafers  about  the  bar  would  jeer  at  her 
if  he  refused;  her  face  pained  her  where  Con's 
blow  had  fallen,  and  she  was  cold  and  shivering, 
and  —  well,  she  was  losing  her  nerve.  So  she 
turned  away  from  the  hot  glow  of  the  bar-room  door 
and  passed  on  into  the  mists  of  the  street. 

As  she  crawled  along  there  came  to  her  ears  a 
quick  thud  of  a  drum-beat  and  the  sound  of  men  and 

12 


178  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

"When  the  King  Comes  In" 

women's  voices  singing.  Marching  through  the 
gloom  they  came,  a  flapping  banner  above  their 
heads,  the  red  shirts  of  the  men  and  the  blue, 
scarlet-banded  bonnets  of  the  women  lending  for  a 
moment  a  patch  of  color  to  the  dim  dinginess  of  the 
street.  Suddenly  they  paused  and  fell  upon  their 
knees  in  the  road,  while  a  man's  voice  wailed  out  a 
prayer.  Time  was  when  Myrtle  Street  gibed  at  the 
Salvationists  and  threw  rocks  at  them  and  hustled 
them  about.  But  that  was  when  the  red  shirts  and 
the  flapping  banner  were  something  new.  The 
newness  was  gone  now,  and  Myrtle  Street  merely 
shuffled  indifferently  past,  and  the  beat  of  the  big 
drum,  the  strident  voices  of  the  exhorters  were  quite 
as  much  a  part  of  the  night  sounds  of  the  place  as 
the  bawling  of  the  showman  or  the  chatter  of  the 
frowsy  girls.  The  woman,  shivering  under  her 
shawl  and  fondling  her  bruised  cheek,  glanced  apa 
thetically  at  the  kneeling  men  and  women,  when 
quickly  her  eyes  became  fixed  upon  the  face  of  one 
of  them  whom  she  knew.  It  was  Maggie,  the  girl 
who  once  occupied  a  dark  little  hole  of  a  room  next 
her  own  in  the  big  tenement  house  where  she  yet 
lived.  Maggie  !  a  forlorn,  starving  thing  of  whom 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  179 

By  Anthony  Leland 

she  had  lost  track  entirely  —  in  truth,  she  had  not 
thought  of  her  since  the  day  when  the  poor,  snivel- 
4ittg,  pale-faced  creature  had  been  turned  into  the 
street  for  not  paying  her  rent.  Myrtle  Street  does 
not  waste  much  time  in  tracing  the  whereabouts  of 
unfortunate  acquaintances,  nor  in  thinking  of  them 
after  they  drift  out  of  sight  under  the  ever-mounting 
wave  of  disaster  which  laps  hungrily  thereabout. 
But  Maggie  in  a  big  bonnet,  with  her  eyes  closed 
and  kneeling  in  the  mud,  was  enough  to  arouse 
Myrtle  Street's  benumbed  curiosity.  So  the  be 
draggled  woman  on  the  sidewalk  pressed  quite  close 
to  the  curb  and  stared  at  her,  wondering  vaguely  at 
the  transformation.  The  man  ended  his  prayer,  and 
his  companions,  rising  to  their  feet,  began  to  sing 
again.  The  woman  on  the  curb  took  no  heed  of  the 
words  which  they  sang.  She  was  not  for  some  mo 
ments  vividly  conscious  of  the  song  at  all ;  she  was 
conscious  only  of  being  tired  and  cold.  Her  curios 
ity  regarding  Maggie  was  dying,  and  she  loitered 
with  the  little  group  which  huddled  upon  the  curb, 
simply  because  she  had  nowhere  else  to  go.  But  as 
she  stood  there  in  the  mist  with  her  sunken  eyes 
staring  vacantly  into  the  night,  the  music  which 


i8o  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

"When  the  King  Comes  In" 

touched  her  ears  began  to  affect  her  oddly.  It  was 
a  curious,  wailing  melody,  with  a  barbaric  accom 
paniment  of  jingling  tambourines,  and  as  its  monoto 
nous,  insistent  swing  beat  the  air  a  strange  feeling  of 
awakening  began  to  stir  her  dull  veins.  She  weaved 
to  and  fro  a  little  in  unison  with  the  measure  of  the 
song.  She  closed  her  eyes  and  felt  a  tightening  in 
her  throat.  She  clutched  her  shawl.  She  felt  a 
wild  desire  to  cry  out  or  sob.  Suddenly  they  ceased 
to  sing,  and  she  opened  her  eyes  with  a  start. 
Maggie  stepped  into  the  little  semi-circle  of  men  and 
women,  and  in  high,  hard  tones  began  to  speak. 

"  Oh  !  Those  is  great,  great  words,  my  friends, 
which  we  have  just  sung,"  she  said  ;  "  awful  words  ! 
Terrifyin'  words !  Did  you  hear  'em  ?  Did  you 
understand  'em  ?  Did  they  come  home  to  you  ? 

"  '  When  the  King  comes  in, 
Like  lightning's  flash  will  that  instant  show 
Things  hidden  long  from  friend  and  foe. 
Just  what  he  is  will  each  one  know, 
When  the  King  comes  in.' 

"Think  of  it!  Think  of  it !  Like  a  flash  will 
it  be,  and  you  will  know  and  I  will  know  —  every- 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  181 

By  Anthony  Leland 

body  will  know  just  what  we  are.  Oh  !  It  is  awful  ! 
Like  lightning's  flash  will  that  coming  be  —  remem 
ber  that  !  Don't  try  to  believe  it  is  far  off.  It 
isn't.  It  may  be  to-night.  It  may  be  within  an 
hour  —  a  minute  —  a  second,  for  you  and  me.  But 
be  it  near  or  far,  it 's  coming,  coming,  coming!" 
Her  voice  shrilled  piercingly,  and  the  woman,  listen 
ing  so  intently  upon  the  curb,  felt  a  thrill  of  excite 
ment  at  the  sound.  It  was  not  clear  to  her  what  it 
all  meant,  but  she  had  a  queer  feeling  of  awe  as  she 
looked  at  Maggie's  drawn  face  and  listened  to  her 
strained,  sharp  voice.  "  My  God  !  "  the  girl  con 
tinued,  "think  of  it  !  Think  if  He  comes  to-night 
and  finds  you  in  all  your  sin  and  wickedness  and  filth. 
Think,  think  and  be  afraid.  Think,  and  before  it's 
too  late,  get  saved  !  I  am  saved,  and  I  thank  God 
to-night  for  it !  " 

A  low  chorus  of  "  Glory  to  God  !  "  "I  believe  !  " 
"  I  believe  !  "  came  from  her  companions. 

"I  am  glad  to-night  to  stand  here  to  tell  you  that 
I  am  saved  and  happy  —  oh  !  so  happy  !  Why  do 
you  wait  ?  Some  of  you  know  me  —  I  was  sinful 
and  tired  and  afraid  once,  but  not  now,  thank  God  ! 
not  now.  I'm  saved,  saved,  saved  !  " 


i82  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

"When  the  King  Comes  In" 

Louder  and  wilder  grew  the  girl's  cry.  She 
waved  her  arms  violently,  and  paced  rapidly  to  and 
fro.  The  listening  woman  shifted  her  position  from 
the  sidewalk  to  the  gutter.  Her  hands  loosened  their 
clutch  upon  her  shawl ;  she  wrung  them  constantly 
as  she  looked  with  wondering  eyes  at  Maggie  — 
Maggie  who  was  n't  tired  nor  afraid  any  more,  and 
was  happy,  and  all  because  she  was  "saved"! 
What  did  it  all  mean  ?  How  had  it  happened  ? 

The  girl  stopped  abruptly  in  her  walk,  and,  as 
though  answering  her  thought,  cried,  "It  is  so  easy 
to  get  saved,  too.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  throw 
yourself  on  your  knees  and  call  on  Jesus,  and  give 
yourself  up  to  Him,  and  all  your  sins  and  fears  and 
troubles  and  burdens  are  gone,  and  you'll  be  happy 
and  glad  and  free  and  saved  forever  ! " 

Without  a  pause  her  voice  shot  into  the  song 
which  they  had  sung  before  ;  but  now  its  measure 
was  changed  to  a  clear,  quick  chant,  with  which  she 
kept  time  by  a  soft  patting  with  her  hands.  Clearer 
and  higher  grew  her  tones,  and  her  companions, 
sinking  to  their  knees,  moaned  in  hushed  voices  a 
weird  accompaniment,  while  the  gently  shaken  tam 
bourines  lent  again  their  strange  barbaric  rhythm, 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  183 

By  Anthony  Leland 

marked  from  time  to  time  by  the  great  drum's 
muffled  beat. 

Nearer  and  nearer  to  the  semi- circle  of  kneeling 
figures  stole  the  listening  woman.  Tears  were 
streaming  from  her  eyes,  her  blue  lips  quivered,  a 
great  sob  tore  itself  from  her  tight  throat.  At  length 
she  stood  quite  within  the  lines  of  the  singers,  and 
then,  with  a  strange,  wild  cry,  she,  too,  fell  upon 
her  knees  in  the  slime  of  the  street.  Her  old  shawl 
fell  from  her  head,  her  arms  rested  upon  the  drum, 
her  swollen  face  was  buried  in  them.  A  great  shout 
of  "Glory  to  God!"  went  up  about  her,  and 
some  one  on  the  curb  cried  amazedly,  "Why,  it's 
old  Kit  !  "  But  she  heard  only  that  monotonous 
wailing  voice  chanting  stridently  "  When  the  King 
Comes  In."  Afterwards  there  came  a  knowledge 
of  some  one's  arm  across  her  shoulders,  of  whispered 
words  and  urgent  voices,  a  sensation  of  being  lifted 
to  her  feet  and  helped  along  the  street,  and  then  a 
confusing  blur  of  yellow  light  from  oil  lamps  in  a 
dingy  hall.  And  at  length  full  consciousness,  dull 
fatigue,  and  an  overwhelming  desire  for  sleep. 

Maggie  and  one  of  the  brothers  in  red  jersey  and 
jaunty  cap  walked  home  with  her,  pouring  into  her 


184  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

"  When  the  King  Comes  In" 

ears  encouraging  advice  in  strange,  cant  words,  which 
she  but  half  understood.  At  the  doorway  of  the 
human  hive  where  she  and  Con  slept  and  fought  and 
starved  the  man  looked  sharply  at  Maggie. 

"  You  are  sure  !  "  he  whispered. 

"Yes  —  they're  married,"  replied  the  girl. 

"  You  will  come  to  the  barracks  early  to-morrow 
morning  ? "  he  asked,  turning  to  Kit. 

She  promised  to  do  so,  and,  passing  into  the  dark 
hall,  climbed  upward  to  where  Con  lay  in  drunken 
stupor. 

The  following  morning  Kit  stepped  into  a  new 
world  —  a  world  of  friendly  words  and  close  com 
panionship.  The  squalidly  poor  know  nothing  of 
that  luxury  called  friendship.  They  are  huddled  to 
gether  in  vast  crowds,  squeezed  and  packed  by  scores 
within  narrow  limits,  jostled  and  elbowed  by  their 
kind  at  every  turn.  They  are  suffocated  by  close 
association.  But  of  fellowship,  of  interest  in  one 
another's  aims,  of  sympathy  with  one  another's  hard 
ships,  they  know  nothing.  Like  starving  dogs  over 
a  bone,  they  growl  and  snarl  and  fly  straight  at 
throats.  So,  when  Kit  crept  half  sullenly  into  the 
barracks  and  was  greeted  by  a  loud  chorus  of  inter- 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  185 

By    Anthony  Leland 

ested  questions  and  by  unstinted  praise,  the  unfamiliar 
warmth  of  friendly  words  thawed  into  life  her  slug 
gish  sensibilities.  And,  too,  an  entirely  new  view 
of  herself  and  the  world  was  suddenly  opened  to  her 
bewildered  gaze,  —  for  the  first  time  in  her  hard  life 
she  was  looked  upon  as  a  human  being  of  some  im 
portance.  They  told  her  that  she  was  suddenly  be 
come  different  from  her  kind,  she  was  better  than 
they,  she  was  "saved."  Not  only  that,  but  she 
must  "  save  "  others.  She  must  quit  the  old  life,  and 
work  for  the  common  good.  Her  new  friends  were 
as  uncouth  and  as  poor  and  as  hard  pressed  as  herself. 
In  their  attitude  there  was  none  of  that  maddening 
condescension,  none  of  that  supercilious  casting  of 
surplus  comforts  at  her  feet,  as  one  would  toss  a  half- 
eaten  orange  toward  a  hungry-eyed  beggar  brat, 
which  was  the  only  sort  of  charity  Kit  had  known 
of  hitherto.  The  friendship  of  the  Salvationists  was 
the  frank  comradeship  of  plain  men  and  women ; 
their  charity  was  the  outcome  of  a  crude,  but  living, 
religious  idea.  And  their  wild  enthusiasm  caught 
her  dull  soul  in  its  sweep  and  lifted  it  a  little  above 
the  fetid  mists  of  her  world.  Some  latent  spark  of 
womanly  ambition  was  stirred  into  life,  and  with 


186  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

"When  the  King  Comes  In" 

halting,   dogged  feet  she  tried  to  climb  out  of  the 
dank  valley  of  her  past. 

It  was  a  wearisome  task,  but  the  exhilarating  sense 
of  friendly  interest  in  her  success  sustained  her.  The 
old  appetite  for  strong  drink  stung  her,  but  the  ex 
citement  of  the  new  life  helped  to  dull  the  craving. 
She  tramped  the  streets  with  her  companions,  her 
cracked  voice  shouting  quaveringly  with  them  as  they 
sang.  She  stepped  sometimes  into  the  little  semi 
circle  at  the  street  corners  to  tell  excitedly  "how 
glad  she  was  that  she  was  saved."  She  knelt  with 
the  others  and  prayed  aloud  for  those  who  were  not 
as  she.  She  was  one  of  a  great,  enthusiastic  army, 
held  up  and  aided  by  the  superficial  strength  which 
comes  of  close  fellowship  and  common  aims.  But 
with  that  growth  of  strength  in  one  quarter  there 
came  a  strange  weakness  in  another.  She  was  grow 
ing  childishly  afraid  of  Con,  and  with  the  growth  of 
that  fear  there  started  into  life  and  waxed  strong  a 
new  loathing  and  hatred  for  his  rum-soaked  person. 
She  would  have  fled  from  him,  only  that  her  new 
masters  told  her  she  must  stick  to  him.  It  was  her 
duty  to  cling  to  him  and  to  "save'*  him.  Their 
first  injunction  she  obeyed  meekly ;  but  to  their  second 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  187 

By  Anthony  Leland 

command  she  turned  a  deaf  ear.  She  knew  what 
Con  was ;  they  did  not.  Every  human  creature  in 
the  wide  world  might  be  saved  —  except  her  hus 
band.  He  was  beyond  the  pale  of  humanity.  So 
long  as  she  did  not  bother  him,  he  paid  little  atten 
tion  to  her  goings  and  comings.  Only  once  she 
ventured  to  protest  when  he  had  spent  a  week's 
earnings  for  drink  (Con  had  a  "  pull "  with  the 
ward  "boss,"  and  when  there  were  no  other  means 
of  getting  money  for  drink  he  found  employment 
with  the  street-cleaners),  and  he  had  knocked  her 
down  for  her  temerity,  and  after  that  she  held  her 
peace  and  wished  dumbly  that  he  might  die. 

At  length  there  came  a  proud  day  when  Kit,  after 
unwonted  labor  over  her  wash-tub,  was  the  possessor 
of  a  decent  black  gown  and  of  the  long-coveted  poke 
bonnet.  It  was  the  eve  of  a  great  rally  at  the  bar 
racks,  when  some  officer  of  high  degree  from  "head 
quarters  "  was  to  review  the  ranks  of  his  army.  At 
the  close  of  day,  when  the  long  shadows  were  be 
ginning  to  steal  across  the  bare  little  room,  with  its 
musty  bed,  its  one  chair,  and  its  rickety  table  pushed 
into  a  corner,  Kit  crouched  upon  the  floor  close  up 
under  the  gray  light  of  her  window,  intent  upon  her 


1 88  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

"When  the  King  Comes  In" 

work.  There  were  but  a  few  stitches  needed  to 
complete  her  gown,  and  her  stiff  fingers  fumbled 
eagerly  with  the  unfamiliar  needle.  Her  thoughts 
were  busy  with  the  glories  of  the  morrow,  and  she 
crooned  one  of  the  Salvationist  hymns  as  she  sewed. 
And  to  her  singing  in  the  twilight  there  came  the 
sound  of  shuffling  footsteps  outside  her  door.  She 
looked  up  apprehensively  as  the  door  flew  open  to 
admit  her  husband.  He  was  drunk,  sullenly,  bru 
tally  drunk. 

"Where's  my  supper?"  he  demanded,  falling 
heavily  into  the  chair.  "Where's  my  supper,  I 
say  ? "  he  repeated,  fixing  an  evil  eye  upon  her. 

"I'll  get  it  now,  Con.  I  was  busy  workin'  on 
my  dress,  an'  I  clean  forgot  your  supper,"  she  ex 
plained,  humbly. 

"Yer  dress?"  he  asked.  "What  right's  a 
measly  fool  like  you  with  dresses?  Le's  see  it." 
He  stretched  forth  his  hand.  She  caught  the  black 
garment  sharply  away  from  him. 

"No,  you'll  spoil  it!"  she  cried,  tossing  the 
dress  into  a  corner  behind  the  bed.  "  You  just  set 
still  there,  an'  I  '11  get  you  somethin'  to  eat." 

"Eatin'   be  damned  !"  he  replied,   surlily.      "I 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  189 

By  Anthony  Leland 

want  somethin'  to  drink.  Here  !  you  take  the  can 
an*  get  somethin'  from  Mike's.  'F  you  can  buy 
clothes,  you  can  buy  drinks." 

"No,  no,  Con,  not  now.  Wait  till  I  get 
supper. ' ' 

"1  don't  want  no  supper!  You  rush  de  can,  I 
tell  you  ! ' ' 

"I  won't!" 

"  The  hell  you  won't!" 

He  started  from  his  chair  and  went  towards  her, 
but  something  in  her  eyes  made  even  his  sodden 
senses  recoil.  He  looked  at  her  dubiously  a  moment, 
and  then  stumbled  out  of  the  room,  muttering 
thickly. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  him,  the  woman  sprang 
for  her  gown,  and,  dragging  it  from  the  corner, 
slipped  it  on.  A  few  more  stitches  were  needed  in 
it,  but  she  dared  not  wait  to  take  them.  A  great 
terror  filled  her  soul.  She  felt  that  her  husband 
would  return  quickly,  uglier  and  wilder  by  a  few 
drams.  With  shaking  fingers  she  pinned  her  gown 
together  as  best  she  might.  She  smoothed  her 
scanty,  dry,  dead  hair  with  her  hands,  and  then  she 
lifted  her  bonnet  from  the  bed.  She  held  it  a  mo- 


i9o  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

"When  the  King  Comes  In" 

ment  admiringly,  drawing  her  fingers  softly  over  its 
trimmings  of  dark-blue  silk,  and  along  its  narrow 
band  of  scarlet  ribbon,  where  the  bright  gilt  letters 
shone.  She  put  it  on  her  head  and  tied  the  soft 
strings  carefully  under  her  chin.  She  glanced  hesi 
tatingly  at  the  old  plaid  shawl,  wishing  that  she  had 
a  better  one,  but  the  night  was  cold,  and  she  drew 
it  about  her  shoulders.  With  a  little  sigh  of  relief 
she  turned  to  leave  the  room.  As  her  hand  touched 
the  door-latch  she  heard  Con's  heavy  tread  upon  the 
stairs.  She  noted  that  he  staggered  a  little,  and  with 
a  quick  indrawing  of  her  breath  she  drew  herself  flat 
against  the  wall  in  the  shadows.  The  man  threw 
the  door  open  fiercely,  steadying  himself  against  the 
jamb  as  he  peered  into  the  dim  room. 

"  Where  are  you,  you  she-devil  ?  "  he  called. 

The  woman  made  no  sound,  and  he  stepped  in 
side  the  room,  with  his  broad  back  towards  her. 
Inch  by  inch  she  crept  along  against  the  wall  towards 
the  door,  as  he  stood  turning  from  side  to  side  in  his 
maudlin  search  for  her,  and  as  her  feet  touched  the 
threshold  he  turned  and  saw  her.  He  rushed  for 
ward  and  grabbed  her  arms. 

"Givin'    me    the    dirty    sneak,    are    you?"    he 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  191 

By  Anthony  Leland 

growled,  shoving  her  inside  the  room  and  closing  the 
door.  " What  d'  yer  mean  ?  Eh  ?  " 

Kit  made  no  answer.  She  backed  off,  her  face 
gleaming  white  inside  her  big  bonnet. 

"Yer  a  nice  one,  ain't  you?"  he  continued. 
"  Won't  get  me  nothin'  to  eat  or  drink,  an*  spendin' 
yer  money  fur  clothes,  an'  then  tryin'  to  make  a 
sneak  !  Oh  !  I  was  onto  you  all  the  time !  You 
white-faced  fool  !  What  d'  yer  mean  ?  Eh  ?  Damn 
you,  what  d'  yer  mean  ? " 

"Stop,  Con  !     Don't  hit  me!" 

He  stumbled  forward  deliberately  and  struck  her 
upturned  face.  She  staggered  into  the  corner  by  the 
table,  and  faced  him  again.  A  tiny  stream  of  some 
thing  red  trickled  down  her  cheek.  Her  eyes  were 
suddenly  ablaze. 

"  Let  me  go  !  "  she  shrieked.      "  Let  me  go  !  " 

"Yer '11  go  an'  get  de  can  filled,  that's  where 
yer '11  go!" 

"I  won't  —  never!" 

A  spasm  of  hate  and  rage  and  terror  writhed  in 
her  face.  With  the  quickness  of  desperation  she 
caught  a  knife  from  the  table  and  waited  for  him. 

He  lunged  towards  her  with  uplifted  arm.     Before 


i9a  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

"When  the  King  Comes  In" 

his  blow  fell  she  gave  one  swift  thrust,  and  his  arm 
came  down  simply  upon  her  shoulder.  For  a  mo 
ment  he  stood  strangely  still.  He  clenched  his  fist ; 
his  teeth  were  tight  ;  he  breathed  hard  through  his 
nose. 

"  Damn  you  —  "      Then  he  reeled  and  fell. 

And  as  the  woman  stood  there  in  the  gathering 
gloom,  with  his  blood  crawling  towards  her  on  the 
floor,  she  heard  the  beat  of  a  drum,  and  the  sound 
of  voices  singing  shrilly,  far  down  the  street.  On 
they  came,  nearer  and  louder,  until  her  listening  ears 
heard  the  thrum  of  the  tambourines.  Under  her 
window  they  passed,  and  away  into  the  night,  until 
at  last  their  sound  was  lost  in  the  ceaseless,  sullen 
tumult  of  Myrtle  Street. 


Mandany's  Fool 

By 

Maria  Louise  Pool 


MANDANY'S   FOOL 

"  VE  ain't  got  hungry  for  termarters,  be  ye  ?M 

Some  one  had  knocked  at  the  screen  door, 
and  as  there  was  no  response,  a  man's  strident, 
good-humored  voice  put  the  above  question  concern 
ing  tomatoes. 

But  somebody  had  heard. 

A  woman  had  been  sitting  in  the  kitchen  with  a 
pan  of  seek-no-further  apples  in  her  lap.  She  was 
paring  and  quartering  these  and  then  stabbing  the 
quarters  through  and  stringing  them  on  yards  of 
white  twine,  preparatory  to  festooning  them  on  the 
clothes-horse  which  stood  in  the  yard.  This  horse 
was  already  decorated  profusely  in  this  way.  A 
cloud  of  wasps  had  flown  from  the  drying  fruit  as 
the  man  walked  up  the  path.  He  swung  off  his  hat 
and  waved  the  insects  away. 

"I  say,  have  ye  got  hungry  agin  for  termarters?" 
he  repeated. 

Then  he  rattled  the  screen  ;  but  it  was  hooked  on 
the  inside. 

'95 


196  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

Mandany's  Fool 

He  turned  and  surveyed  the  three  windows  that 
were  visible  in  the  bit  of  a  house. 

"They  wouldn't  both  be  gone,  'n'  left  them 
apples  out,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  I  'm  'bout  sure 
Ann  's  to  home  ;  'n'  she  's  the  one  I  want  to  see." 

A  woman  in  the  bed-room  which  opened  from 
the  kitchen  was  hurriedly  smoothing  her  hair  and 
peering  into  the  glass.  She  was  speaking  aloud  with 
the  air  of  one  who  constantly  talks  to  herself. 

"Jest  as  sure  's  I  don't  comb  my  hair  the  first 
thing,  somebody  comes." 

She  gave  a  last  pat  and  went  to  the  door.  There 
was  a  faint  smirk  on  her  lips  and  a  flush  on  her 
face. 

Her  tall  figure  was  swayed  by  a  slight,  eager 
tremor  as  she  saw  who  was  standing  there.  She 
exclaimed  :  — 

"Goodness  me!  'T  ain't  you,  Mr.  Baker,  is  it? 
Won't  ye  walk  right  in  ?  But  I  don't  want  no  termar- 
ters  ;  they  always  go  aginstme.  Aunt  Mandany  ain't 
to  home." 

«'  Oh,  ain't  she  ?  "  was  the  brisk  response.  "  Then 
I  guess  I  will  come  in." 

The  speaker  pushed  open  the  now  unfastened  door 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES       197 

By  Maria  Louise  Pool 

and  entered.  He  set  his  basket  of  tomatoes  with  a 
thump  on  the  rug,  and  wiped  his  broad,  red  face. 

"Fact  is,"  he  said  with  a  grin,  "I  knew  she  was 
gone.  I  seen  her  goin'  crosst  the  pastur'.  That's 
why  I  come  now.  I  ain't  got  no  longin'  to  see 
Aunt  Mandany —  no,  sir-ee,  not  a  grain  of  longin' 
to  see  her.  But  I  thought  't  would  be  agreeable  to 
me  to  clap  my  eyes  on  to  you." 

The  woman  simpered,  made  an  inarticulate  sound, 
and  hurriedly  resumed  her  seat  and  her  apple-cutting. 

"  Won't  you  se'  down,  Mr.  Baker  ? "  she  asked. 

Her  fingers  trembled  as  she  took  the  darning- 
needle  and  jabbed  it  through  an  apple  quarter.  The 
needle  went  into  her  flesh  also.  She  gave  a  little 
cry  and  thrust  her  finger  into  her  mouth.  Her  large, 
pale  eyes  turned  wistfully  towards  her  companion. 
The  faded,  already  elderly  mouth  quivered. 

"I  'm  jest  as  scar't  's  I  c'n  be  if  I  see  blood," 
she  whispered. 

Mr.  Baker's  heavy  under  lip  twitched  ;  his  face 
softened.  But  he  spoke  roughly. 

"  You  needn't  mind  that  bit  er  blood,"  he  said, 
"  that  won't  hurt  nothin'.  I  don't  care  if  I  do  se' 
down.  I  ain't  drove  any  this  mornin'.  I  c'n  jest 


198  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

Mandany's  Fool 

as  well  as  not  take  hold  'n'  help  ye.  I  s'pose  Man- 
dany  left  a  thunderin'  lot  for  ye  to  do  while  she  's 
gone?" 

"  Two  bushels,"  was  the  answer. 

"  The  old  cat!  That  's  too  much.  But 't  won't 
be  for  both  of  us,  will  it,  Ann  ?  " 

The  woman  said,  "  No." 

She  looked  for  an  instant  intently  at  the  man  who 
had  drawn  his  chair  directly  opposite  her.  He  was 
already  paring  an  apple. 

"Id'  know  what  to  make  of  it,"  she  said,  still  in 
a  whisper. 

"  To  make  of  what  ?  "  briskly. 

"  Why,  when  folks  are  so  good  to  me  's  you  be." 

"Oh,  sho',  now!  Everybody  ain't  like  your 
Aunt  Mandany." 

"'Sh!  Don't  speak  so  loud!  Mebby  she'll  be 
comin'  back." 

"  No,  she  won't.      'N'  no  matter  if  she  is." 

The  loud,  confident  tone  rang  cheerily  in  the 
room. 

During  the  silence  that  followed  Mr.  Baker 
watched  Ann's  deft  fingers. 

"  Everybody  says  you're  real  capable,"  he  re 
marked. 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  199 

By  Maria  Louise  Pool 

A  joyous  red  covered  Ann's  face. 

"  I  jest  about  do  all  the  work  here/'  she  said. 

She  looked  at  the  man  again. 

There  was  something  curiously  sweet  in  the  sim 
ple  face.  The  patient  line  at  each  side  of  the  close, 
pale  mouth  had  a  strange  effect  upon  Mr.  Baker. 

He  had  been  known  to  say  violently  in  conversa 
tion  at  die  store  that  he  "never  seen  Ann  Tracy 
'thout  wantin'  to  thrash  her  Aunt  Mandany." 

"  What  in  time  be  you  dryin'  seek-no-further 
for?"  he  now  exclaimed  with  some  fierceness. 
"They're  the  flattest  kind  of  apples  I  know 
of." 

"  That 's  what  Aunt  says,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  she 
says  they  're  most  as  flat 's  as  I  be,  'n'  that 's  flat 
'nough." 

These  words  were  pronounced  as  if  the  speaker 
were  merely  stating  a  well-known  fact. 

"Then  what  does  she  do  um  for?"  persisted 
Mr.  Baker. 

"  She  says  they  're  good  'nough  to  swop  for 
groceries  in  the  spring." 

Mr.  Baker  made  a  deep  gash  in  an  apple,  and  held 
his  tongue. 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 


Mandany's  Fool 


Ann  continued  her  work,  but  she  took  a  good  deal 
of  seek-no-further  with  the  skin  in  a  way  that  would 
have  shocked  Aunt  Mandany. 

Suddenly  she  raised  her  eyes  to  the  sturdy  face 
opposite  her  and  said  :  — 

"  I  guess  your  wife  had  a  real  good  time,  didn't 
she,  Mr.  Baker,  when  she  was  livin'  ? " 

Mr.  Baker  dropped  his  knife.  He  glanced  up  and 
met  the  wistful  gaze  upon  him. 

Something  that  he  had  thought  long  dead  stirred 
in  his  consciousness. 

"I  hope  so,"  he  said  gently.  "  I  do  declare  I 
tried  to  make  her  have  a  good  time." 

"  How  long  's  she  be'n  dead  ? " 

"  '  Most  ten  year.  We  was  livin*  down  to  Norris 
Corners  then." 

The  man  picked  up  his  knife  and  absently  tried 
the  edge  of  it  on  the  ball  of  his  thumb. 

"I  s'pose,"  said  Ann,  "that  folks  are  sorry 
when  their  wives  die." 

Mr.  Baker  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"Wall,  that  depends." 

"  Oh,  does  it  ?  I  thought  folks  had  to  love  their 
wives,  V  be  sorry  when  they  died." 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 


By  Maria  Louise  Pool 


Here  Mr.  Baker  laughed  again.  He  made  no 
other  answer  for  several  minutes.  At  last  he  said  : 

"I  was  sorry  enough  when  my  wife  died." 

A  great  pile  of  quartered  apples  was  heaped  up  in 
the  wooden  bowl  before  either  spoke  again. 

Then  Ann  exclaimed  with  a  piteous  intensity  : 

"  Oh,  I  'm  awful  tired  of  bein'  Aunt  Mandany's 
fool!" 

Mr.  Baker  stamped  his  foot  involuntarily. 

"  How  jew  know  they  call  you  that  ? "  he  cried 
in  a  great  voice. 

"  I  heard  Jane  Littlefield  tell  Mis'  Monk  she  hoped 
nobody  'd  ask  Mandany's  fool  to  the  sociable.  And 
Mr.  Fletcher's  boy  told  me  that 's  what  folks  called 
me." 

"  Damn  Jane  Littlefield  !  Damn  that  little  devil 
of  a  boy!" 

These  dreadful  words  burst  out  furiously. 

Perhaps  Ann  did  not  look  as  shocked  as  she  ought. 

In  a  moment  she  smiled  her  immature,  simple 
smile  that  had  a  touching  appeal  in  it. 

"  '  T  ain't  no  use  denyin'  it,"  she  said  ;  "I  ain't 
jes'  like  other  folks,  V  that's  a  fact.  I  can't  think 
stiddy  more  'n  a  minute.  Things  all  run  together, 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


Mandany's  Fool 


somehow.  'N'  the  back  er  my  head  's  odd  's  it 
can  be." 

"Pooh!  What  of  it?  There  can't  any  of  us 
think  stiddy  ;  'n'  if  we  could  what  would  it  amount 
to,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  It  would  n't  amount  to  a 
row  of  pins." 

Ann  dropped  her  work  and  clasped  her  hands. 
Mr.  Baker  saw  that  her  hands  were  hard,  and  stained 
almost  black  on  fingers  and  thumbs  by  much  cutting 
of  apples. 

"  Ye  see,"  she  said,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "  some 
times  I  think  if  mother  had  lived  she'd  er  treated  me 
so  't  I  could  think  stiddier.  I  s'pose  mother  'd  er 
loved  me.  They  say  mothers  do.  But  Aunt  Man- 
dany  told  me  mother  died  the  year  I  got  my  fall  from 
the  cherry-tree.  I  was  eight  then.  I  don't  re 
member  nothin'  'bout  it,  nor  'bout  anything  much. 
Mr.  Baker,  do  you  remember  your  mother?" 

Mr.  Baker  said  "Yes,"  abruptly.  Something 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  say  more. 

"I  d'  know  how  'tis,"  went  on  the  thin,  minor 
voice,  "  but  it  always  did  seem  to  me  's  though  if  I 
could  remember  my  mother  I  could  think  stiddier, 
somehow.  Do  you  think  I  could?" 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  203 

By  Maria  Louise  Pool 

Mr.  Baker  started  to  his  feet. 

"I  '11  be  dumbed  'f  I  c'n  stan'  it,"  he  shouted. 
"  No,  nor  I  won't  stan'  it,  nuther!  " 

He  walked  noisily  across  the  room. 

He  came  back  and  stood  in  front  of  Ann,  who 
had  patiently  resumed  work. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "I  think  a  lot  of  ye.  Le's 
git  married." 

Ann  looked  up.      She  dropped  her  knife. 

"Then  I  should  live  with  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"Of  course." 

She  laughed. 

There  was  so  much  of  confident  happiness  in  that 
laugh  that  the  man's  heart  glowed  youthfully. 

"  I  shall  be  real  glad  to  marry  you,  Mr.  Baker," 
she  said.  Then,  with  pride,  "'N'  I  c'n  cook,  V 
I  know  first  rate  how  to  do  housework." 

She  rose  to  her  feet ;   her  eyes  shone. 

Mr.  Baker  put  his  arm  about  her. 

"Le  's  go  right  along  now,"  he  said,  more  quickly 
than  he  had  yet  spoken.  "  We  '11  call  to  the  minis 
ter's 'n' engage  him.  You  c'n  stop  there.  We'll 
be  married  to-day." 

"  Can't  ye  wait  till  I  c'n  put  on  my  bunnit  'n' 
shawl  ?  "  Ann  asked. 


204  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

Mandany 's  Fool 

She  left  the  room.  In  a  few  moments  she  re 
turned  dressed  for  going.  She  had  a  sheet  of  note- 
paper,  a  bottle  of  ink,  and  a  pen  in  her  hands. 

"I  c'n  write,'*  she  said  confidently,  "  'n'  I  call 
it  fairer  to  leave  word  for  Aunt  Mandany." 

"  All  right,"  was  the  response  ;   "  go  ahead." 

Mr.  Baker  said  afterward  that  he  never  got  much 
more  nervous  in  his  life  than  while  Ann  was  writing 
that  note.  What  if  Mandany  should  appear!  He 
wasn't  going  to  back  out,  but  he  didn't  want  to  see 
that  woman. 

The  ink  was  thick,  the  pen  was  like  a  pin,  and 
Ann  was  a  good  while  making  each  letter,  but  the 
task  was  at  last  accomplished.  She  held  out  the 
sheet  to  her  companion. 

"  Ain't  that  right  ?  "  she  asked. 

Mr.  Baker  drew  his  face  down  solemnly  as  he 
read  :  — 

DERE  AUNT  MANDANE:  — 

I  *m  so  dretfull  Tired  of  beeing  youre  fool  that  ime 
going  too  be  Mr.  Baker's.  He  askt  me. 

ANN. 

"That's  jest  the  thing,"  he  said  explosively. 
"  Now,  come  on." 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  205 

By  Maria  Louise  Pool 

As  they  walked  along  in  the  hot  fall  sunshine  Mr. 
Baker  said  earnestly  :  — 

"  I  'm  certain  sure  we  sh'll  be  ever  so  much 
happier." 

"  So  'm  I,"  Ann  replied,  with  cheerful  con 
fidence. 

They  were  on  a  lonely  road,  and  they  walked 
hand  in  hand. 

"I  'm  goin'  to  be  good  to  ye,"  said  the  man, 
with  still  more  earnestness.  Then,  in  a  challenging 
tone,  as  if  addressing  the  world  at  large,  "  I  guess 
't  ain't  nobody's  business  but  our'n." 

Ann  looked  at  him  and  smiled  trustfully. 

After  a  while  he  began  to  laugh. 

"I'm  thinkin'  of  your  Aunt  Mandany  when  she 
reads  that  letter,"  he  explained. 


The  Way  to  Constantinople 

By 

Clinton  Ross 


THE   WAY   TO   CONSTANTINOPLE 

MRS.  DENBY  poured  the  tea. 
"  Now,  speaking  of  Constantinople,"  Denby 
began. 

Mrs.  Denby  blushed.      I  envied  Denby. 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  I,  "  I  have  read  Gautier,  and 
that  is  a  very  good  monograph  of  Marion  Craw 
ford's.  I  was  there  once  myself." 

"Were  you?"  said  Mrs.  Denby,  demurely. 
"  Do  you  take  sugar  ?  " 

"Oh,  tell  me!"  I  began,  for  I  saw  I  was 
expected  to  show  some  interest. 

"Don't,  Dick,"  began  Mrs.  Denby. 

"Oh,  it's  only  Tom,"  said  Denby,  fondly;  but 
not  half  so  fondly  as  he  had  before  he  had  found  her, 
and  persuaded  her,  and  —  I  always  have  had  such  bad 
luck  with  the  woman  whom  it's  worth  while  trying 
to  marry  ! 

"You   see,  —  it's  a  silly  story.      Dick's  usually 
are,"  began  Mrs.  Denby. 
14  209 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 


The  Way  to  Constantinople 


"  Oh,  fiddlesticks !"  said  Denby.      "Now,  you 
know—" 

"  Oh,  if  you  must,"  said  Mrs.  Denby,  despairfully. 

"Paris  was  a  glare  of  splendor  that  February, — 
after  the  North  Atlantic,"  Denby  went  on.  "  Did 
you  ever  leave  New  York  of  a  dismal  day  of  winter 
fog  and  a  week  after  find  yourself  in  Havre  ?  The 
boulevards  are  gay,  the  shops  resplendent.  Paris  is  a 
different  place  from  Paris  in  July,  —  when  hordes  of 
our  countrymen  swoop  down  on  it  like  the  Huns. 
It  's  like  the  rural  visitor  doing  Fifth  Avenue  in 
August,  and  wondering  why  New  York  is  so  much 
talked  about.  But  Paris  in  February  is  the  Paris 
one  dreams  of  when  the  word  is  pronounced,  with 
all  its  suggest! veness  of  the  world's  gayety.  Yet,  it 
was  cold  that  February,  —  as  bitter  as  in  New 
York  ;  and  after  coming  back  one  night  to  my 
lodging  on  the  Avenue  Carnot,  where  the  cab  was 
unable  to  make  its  way  because  of  the  frozen  sleet 
on  the  smooth  paving  of  the  hill  the  Avenue  des 
Champs  Elysees  climbs,  —  that  night  I  concluded  I 
had  not  intended  exchanging  New  York  for  wintry 
unpleasantness,  and  decided  to  go  to  Constantinople. 
Constantinople,  where  I  had  never  been,  seemed  so 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


By  Clinton  Ross 


far  away,  and  I  did  not  know  that  it,  too,  could  be 
bleakly  dismal  in  the  spring.  The  next  morning  I 
booked  on  the  Orient  Express.  That  evening  I  was 
snugly  put  away  in  my  compartment,  and  the  morn 
ing  after  was  looking  on  a  Bavarian  landscape." 

"You  always  were  impulsive,"  Mrs.  Denby 
interrupted. 

"  Yes ;  nothing  proves  that  more  than  my  con 
duct  the  next  morning  at  breakfast  in  the  dining-car. 
I  appeared  late.  The  place  was  crowded.  A  very 
pretty  girl  —  " 

"Did  you  really  think  so  then?"  said  Mrs. 
Denby. 

"Oh,  I  did,  or  else  I  shouldn't  have  taken  the 
seat  opposite  beside  a  little  chap  who  was  ogling  and 
embarrassing  her  dreadfully." 

"Such  a  man's  horrid,"  commented  Mrs. 
Denby. 

"I  saw  at  once  he  was  one  of  those  little  Pari 
sians,  whose  kind  I  know  well,  who  in  some  way  lose 
their  appropriateness  when  transplanted.  For  I  knew 
at  once  they  were  not  acquaintances.  The  girl  ap 
peared  alone,  English  or  American  —  I  could  not  be 
certain.  Now,  I  was  sure  the  man  was  objection- 


aia  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

The  Way  to  Constantinople 

able,  —  not  quite  a  gentleman,  —  or,  if  he  had  been, 
he  had  distorted  the  quality." 

"  Now  you  need  n't  explain,"  said  Mrs.  Denby. 
"  My  honest  opinion  is  that  you  took  the  seat  for 
exactly  the  same  reason  as  he,  because  —  " 

"  Because  the  girl  was  pretty?  "  said  Denby. 

"  I  did  n't  say  she  was,"  Mrs.  Denby  hastened 
to  add. 

"  '  I  beg  pardon,  Monsieur/  said  I  to  the  man, 
when  he  glared.  Presently  the  Swiss  brought  the 
young  lady's  bill,  when  a  strange  agitation  appeared 
in  my  vis-a-vis.  I  saw  and  felt  for  her.  She  had 
no  money.  She  probably  had  her  ticket,  but  had 
lost  her  purse.  She  did  not  attempt  to  go  back  to 
the  Wagon  Lit. 

"  '  I  am  going  to  Constantinople, '  she  said. 

'"I  beg  pardon,  Madame,'  began  the  Swiss. 

"  'Cannot  the  bill  — ' 

"  'I  am  sorry,  Mademoiselle,'  said  the  Swiss,  and 
he  looked  desolated,  with  a  contrary  gleam  in  his  eye. 

"  Here  the  man  by  my  side  dropped  from  the 
category  of  the  gentleman  to  that  of  the  cad. 

" '  If  Mademoiselle  will  allow  me,'  he  began 
eagerly. 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  213 

By  Clinton  Ross 

"I  leaned  under  the  table,  pretending  to  pick  up 
a  purse,  which  I  really  took  from  my  pocket. 

" '  I  think  this  is  your  purse,'  I  said  in  English. 

"  For  an  instant  she  scanned  me.  The  French 
man  looked  daggers.  She  was  blushing. 

"  '  Thank  you/  said  she,  and  I  knew  she  was  an 
American  ;  'how  stupid  of  me  to  have  dropped  it.' 

"  And  from  my  purse  she  paid  the  bill,  nodded  to 
me,  ignoring  the  Frenchman,  and  without  further 
word  left  the  buffet. 

"  The  particular  French  cad  evidently  wanted  to 
pick  a  quarrel  with  me,  and  for  a  moment  I  was 
debating  with  myself  whether  I  might  not  have  been 
an  ass.  A  fool's  money  goes  the  way  of  his  scanty 
wit.  The  girl  might  appear  pretty,  innocent,  attrac 
tive  —  and  yet  —  I  swallowed  my  coffee,  and 
returned  to  my  compartment,  which  I  had  to  myself. 
The  door  was  open.  Presently  I  saw  the  young 
woman  of  the  breakfast-table  walking  up  and  down 
the  aisle.  I  was  determined  I  should  not  notice  her. 
Suddenly  I  heard  her  voice  at  the  door. 

"  '  Sir,  what  can  you  think  of  me  ?  But  I 
couldn't  help  it,  really,  —  I  have  lost  my  purse. 
Here  is  yours  ;  I  will  return  the  six  francs  at 
Constantinople.' 


(t  t 

€t    f 


2i4  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

The  Way  to  Constantinople 

"  I  saw  a  tear  ;  and  I  was  sure  my  knowledge  of 
femininity  — ' ' 

"  Conceited,"  said  Mrs.  Denby. 

"Could  not  be  at  fault,"  Denby  continued.      "  I 
bowed. 

"'I'm  glad  to  be  able  to  make  the  loan  — '  I 
began. 

It's  good  of  you,'  said  she. 
But  if  you  have  lost  all  your  money,  I  don't 
see  — ' 

«  '  What  ? ' 

"  '  How  can  you  avoid  borrowing  more  ? ' 

"  <  That  man  at  the  table  made  me  feel  so  detes 
tably,'  she  began. 

"  '  Oh,  you  must  n't  mind  ! ' 

"  '  And  you  really  are  so  nice —     What  do  you 
know  about  me  ? ' 

'"Oh,  I  can  tell.' 

"  '  I  think  you  generally  can,'  said  she. 

"'Isn't  that  interesting?'    said  I,  pointing  out 
of  the  window  at  some  peasants  in  the  field. 

"  '  Ah,  yes ! '   said  she. 

"  «  May  I  sit  down  ? '    said  I. 

"  We  had  reached  her  seat. 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  215 

By  Clinton  Ross 

"  '  Why,  certainly,  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  you.' 

"  « How  does  it  happen  — '  I  began  after  a 
moment. 

"  'Oh,  here's  your  purse,'  she  interrupted. 

"  'Now,  really,  please.  It  won't  inconvenience 
me  in  the  least.  There  are  only  five  louis  there, 
and  I  have  my  portemonnaie  besides,  and  —  ' 

"  '  And  ? ' 

" « I  believe  I  said  I  should  be  delighted.' 

"  '  Oh,  you  did,  but  you  began  a  — ' 

"  '  What  ? '  said  I,  feeling  uncomfortable. 

"'A  question.      I  know  what  it  was.' 

'"Well,  if  you  do  — ' 

"'I'm  from  Illinois.  We  don't  regard  chap- 
erones  as  so  necessary  ;  besides  — ' 

"  '  Besides  ? '  I  could  n't  resist  saying. 

"  '  I  believe  women  should  take  care  of  themselves.' 

"  '  But  they  can't  —  always.' 

"  '  You  mean  —  '   she  began  rather  indignantly. 

"  '  Well  —  well  —  they  sometimes  have  to  bor 
row,  you  know.' 

"'That's  —  that's  mean  of  you.' 

"  '  Oh,  I  —  I  beg  pardon.' 

"'You  needn't.     I   wish  I  could  return  your 


216  CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 

The  Way  to  Constantinople 

six  francs.  I  am  going  to  Constantinople  to  meet 
my  father,  who  is  up  from  the  east.  I  went  all 
alone  —  because  —  there  was  nobody.' 

'"I'm  sorry,'  said  I.  'Now  don't  mind  me, 
please.' 

"  She  looked  at  me  then. 

"  'I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  tolerate  you.  You 
are  the  only  American  on  this  train.' 

"'I  consider  myself  your  guardian,  —  with  let 
ters  testamentary.' 

"  « I  am  forced  to  it,'  said  she,  but  smiling." 

"Now,  she  did  n't  smile,"  said  Mrs.  Denby. 

"'Oh,'  said  I,  'this  is  deliciously  lucky.  I 
thought  I  should  have  this  ride  alone.' 

"At  this  moment  —  for  some  time  had  passed  — 
the  Swiss  announced  luncheon,  which  she  —  " 

"  How  horridly  forward  it  all  sounds,"  interrupted 
Mrs.  Denby. 

"  Which  she  took  with  me." 

"  Oh,  dear,  I  wonder  at  it,"  said  Mrs.  Denby. 

"  She  had  to,"  said  Denby. 

"Yes,  of  course,  you  had  the  money,"  said  Mrs. 
Denby. 

''Well,  she  tolerated  —  " 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  217 

By  Clinton  Ross 

"That's  the  word,  I  think/'  assented  Mrs. 
Denby. 

"We  walked  the  station  at  Vienna.  We  took 
an  ice  at  Buda-Pesth.  We  wondered  about  Queen 
Nathalie  at  Belgrade.  We  bought  beads  at  Sofia. 
We  shivered  over  the  Bulgarian  soldiers  squatting  on 
the  platform  against  Turkish  banditti.  I  told  her 
how  an  Orient  Express  had  been  held  up  the  autumn 
before,  a  Frankfort  banker  abstracted,  and  his  ears 
sent  to  his  counting-house  with  a  request  for  a  gold 
payment  or  else  his  tongue  would  follow." 

"That  was  horrid  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Denby. 

"Well,  at  Constantinople,  her  father  was  not 
there." 

"It  was  terrible,"  said  Mrs.  Denby. 

"But  I  knew  the  American  Consul's  wife,  who 
took  in  the  situation." 

"  It  was  very  nice  of  her,"  said  Mrs.  Denby. 

"  We  roamed  about  the  Pera  ;  sentimentalized  in 
San  Sofia  ;  bargained  —  ' ' 

"With  your  money,"  said  Mrs.  Denby. 

"  In  the  bazaars.  We  rode  in  a  palanquin,  and 
drove  to  the  Sweet  Waters  of  Europe,  danced  at  the 
Russian  Legation,  — where  she  was  irresistible." 


218  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

The  Way  to  Constantinople 

"  Your  eyes  ! '  *  said  Mrs.  Denby,  with  severe 
sarcasm. 

"  One  day  her  father  appeared.  She  counted  out 
three  louis  —  " 

"And  five  francs  sixty  centimes,"  said  Mrs. 
Denby. 

'"That  isn't  all,'  said  I. 

"  '  Why,  let  me  see,'  she  began. 

"  '  It  is  n't  all,'  said  I.      '  There 's  my  heart.'  " 

"  It  was  a  very  silly  speech  —  not  at  all  original," 
said  Mrs.  Denby.  "  I  should  think  you  would  be 
ashamed  to  repeat  it  —  before  visitors.  But,  Mr. 
Pemberton,  you  haven't  told  me  whether  you  take 
sugar  ?  " 

"Sugar,  thanks,"  said  I.  "That's  a  good 
story.  It  reminds  me  of  an  episode  in  Hunter's 
novel  —  " 

"  This  is  a  better  story,"  said  Denby. 

"  Dick  !  "  said  Mrs.  Denby,  looking  at  him  with 
sudden  earnestness.  "  Do  you  mean  that  —  now  !  " 

I  felt,  as  is  often  the  case  lately,  the  superfluous 
bachelor.  I  went  to  call  on  Sally  Waters. 


The  Old   Partisan 
By 

Octave  Thanet 


THE    OLD    PARTISAN 

T  SAT  so  far  back  in  the  gallery  that  my  opinion 
*  of  my  delegate  friend  dwindled  with  every 
session.  Nevertheless  my  unimportant  seat  had  its 
advantages.  I  could  see  the  vast  assembly  and 
watch  the  throbbing  of  the  Republican  pulse  if  I 
could  not  hear  its  heartbeats.  Therefore,  perhaps, 
I  studied  my  neighbors  more  than  I  might  study 
them  under  different  circumstances.  The  great 
wooden  hall  had  its  transient  and  unsubstantial 
character  stamped  on  every  bare  wooden  joist  and 
unclinched  nail.  It  was  gaudy  with  flags  and 
bunting  and  cheap  portraits.  There  were  tin 
bannerets  crookedly  marshalled  on  the  floor,  to 
indicate  the  homes  of  the  different  States.  A  few 
delegates,  doubtless  new  to  the  business  and  over- 
zealous,  were  already  on  the  floor,  but  none  of  the 
principals  were  visible.  They  were  perspiring  and 
arguing  in  those  committee  rooms,  those  hotel  lobbies 
and  crowded  hotel  rooms  where  the  real  business  of 
the  convention  was  already  done  and  neatly  pre- 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


The  Old  Partisan 


pared  for  presentation  to  the  nation.  I  had  nothing 
to  keep  me  from  studying  my  neighbors.  In  front 
of  me  sat  two  people  who  had  occupied  the  same  seats 
at  every  session  that  I  was  present,  a  young  girl  and 
an  old  man.  The  girl  wore  the  omnipresent  shirt 
waist  (of  pretty  blue  and  white  tints,  with  snowy 
cuffs  and  collar),  and  her  green  straw  hat  was 
decked  with  blue  corn-flowers,  from  which  I  in 
ferred  that  she  had  an  eye  on  the  fashions.  Her 
black  hair  was  thick  and  glossy  under  the  green 
straw.  I  thought  that  she  had  a  graceful  neck.  It 
was  very  white.  Whiter  than  her  face,  which  had 
a  touch  of  sunburn,  as  if  she  were  often  out  in  the 
open  air.  Somehow  I  concluded  that  she  was  a 
shop-girl  and  rode  a  wheel.  If  I  were  wrong  it  is 
not  likely  that  I  shall  ever  know. 

The  old  man  I  fancied  was  not  so  old  as  he 
looked  ;  his  delicate,  haggard  profile  may  have  owed 
its  sunken  lines  and  the  dim  eye  to  sickness  rather 
than  to  years.  He  wore  the  heavy  black  broad 
cloth  of  the  rural  politician,  and  his  coat  sagged 
over  his  narrow  chest  as  if  he  had  left  his  waistcoat 
at  home.  On  his  coat  lapel  were  four  old-fashioned 
Elaine  badges.  Incessantly  he  fanned  himself. 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  223 

By  Octave  Thanet 

"It  can't  be  they  ain't  going  to  nominate  him 
to-day  ? ' '  he  asked  rather  than  asserted,  his  voice 
breaking  on  the  higher  notes,  the  mere  wreck  of 
a  voice. 

"  Oh,  maybe  later,"  the  girl  reassured  him. 

"  Well,  I  wanted  to  attend  a  Republican  conven 
tion  once  more  before  I  died.  Your  ma  would 
have  it  I  wasn't  strong  enough  ;  but  I  knew  better  ; 
you  and  I  knew  better ;  did  n't  we,  Jenny  ?  " 

She  made  no  answer  except  to  pat  his  thin, 
ribbed  brown  hand  with  her  soft,  white,  slim  one ; 
but  there  was  a  world  of  sympathy  in  the  gesture 
and  her  silent  smile. 

"I  wonder  what  your  ma  said  when  she  came 
downstairs  and  found  the  letter,  and  us  gone,"  he 
cackled  with  the  garrulous  glee  of  a  child  recounting 
successful  mischief;  "made  me  think  of  the  times 
when  you  was  little  and  I  stole  you  away  for  the 
circus.  Once,  your  pa  thought  you  was  lost  — 
'member  ?  And  once,  you  had  on  your  school-dress 
and  you  'd  tore  it  —  she  did  scold  you  that  time. 
But  we  had  fun  when  they  used  to  let  me  have 
money,  did  n't  we,  Jenny  ?  " 

"Well,  now  I  earn  money,  we  have  good  times, 


2*4  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

The  Old  Partisan 

too,  grandpa,'*  said  Jenny,  smiling  the  same  tender, 
comprehending  smile. 

"  We  do  that ;  I  don't  know  what  I  would  do 
'cept  for  you,  lambie,  and  this  is  —  this  is  a  grand 
time,  Jenny,  you  look  and  listen  ;  it 's  a  great  thing 
to  see  a  nation  making  its  principles  and  its  president 
—  and  such  a  president  !  ' ' 

He  half  turned  his  head  as  he  spoke,  with  a 
mounting  enthusiasm,  thus  bringing  his  flushing  face 
and  eager  eyes  —  no  longer  dim  —  into  the  focus  of 
his  next  neighbor's  bright  gray  eyes.  The  neighbor 
was  a  young  man,  not  very  young  but  hardly  to  be 
called  elderly,  of  an  alert  bearing  and  kindly  smile. 

"I  think  him  a  pretty  fair  man  myself,"  said  the 
other  with  a  jocose  understatement ;  "  I  come  from 
his  town." 

What  was  there  in  such  a  simple  statement  to 
bring  a  distinctly  anxious  look  into  the  young  girl's 
soft  eyes  ?  There  it  was  ;  one  could  not  mistake  it. 

"  Well  !  ' '  said  the  old  man  ;  there  was  a  flatter 
ing  deference  in  his  voice.  "  Well,  well.  And  — 
and  maybe  you've  seen  him  lately?"  The 
quavering  tones  sharpened  with  a  keener  feeling  ;  it 
was  almost  as  if  the  man  were  inquiring  for  some 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  225 

By  Octave  Thanet 

one  on  whom  he  had  a  great  stake  of  affection. 
"  How  did  he  look  ?  Was  he  better,  stronger  ?  " 

"Oh,  he  looked  elegant,"  said  the  Ohio  man, 
easily,  but  with  a  disconcerted  side  glance  at  the 
girl  whose  eyes  were  imploring  him. 

"I  've  been  a  Blaine  man  ever  since  he  was  run, 
the  time  Bob  Ingersoll  nominated  him,"  said  the 
old  man,  who  sighed  as  if  relieved.  "I  was  at 
that  convention  and  heard  the  speech  — 

"Ah,  that  was  a  speech  to  hear,"  said  a  man 
behind,  and  two  or  three  men  edged  their  heads 
nearer. 

The  old  Republican  straightened  his  bent 
shoulders,  his  winter-stung  features  softened  and 
warmed  at  the  manifestation  of  interest,  his  voice 
sank  to  the  confidential  undertone  of  the  narrator. 

"  You  're  right,  sir,  right ;  it  was  a  magnificent 
speech.  I  can  see  him  jest  as  he  stood  there,  a 
stoutish,  good-looking  man,  smooth-faced,  his  eye 
straight  ahead,  and  an  alternate  that  sat  next  me  — 
I  was  an  alternate ;  I  Ve  been  an  alternate  four 
times;  I  could  have  been  a  delegate,  but  I  says, 
'  No,  abler  men  than  me  are  wanting  it ;  I  'm  will 
ing  to  fight  in  the  ranks/  But  I  wished  I  had  a 
15 


226  CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 

The  Old  Partisan 

vote,  a  free  vote  that  day,  I  tell  you.  The  alter 
nate  near  me,  he  says,  '  You  '11  hear  something  fine 
now  ;  I  've  heard  him  speak.'  " 

"  You  did,  too,  I  guess." 

"We  could  hear  from  the  first  minute.  That 
kinder  fixed  our  attention.  He  had  a  mellow,  rich 
kind  of  voice  that  melted  into  our  ears.  We  found 
ourselves  listening  and  liking  him  from  the  first  sen 
tence.  At  first  he  was  as  quiet  as  a  summer  breeze, 
but  presently  he  began  to  warm  up,  and  the  words 
flowed  out  like  a  strea  n  of  jewels.  It  was  electrify 
ing  :  it  was  thrilling,  sir ;  it  took  us  off  our  feet  be 
fore  we  knew  it,  and  when  he  came  to  the  climax, 
those  of  us  that  weren't  yelling  in  the  aisles  were 
jumping  up  and  down  on  our  chairs  !  I  know  I 
found  myself  prancing  up  and  down  in  my  own  hat 
on  a  chair,  swinging  somebody  else's  hat  and  scream 
ing  at  the  top  of  my  voice,  with  the  tears  running 
down  my  cheeks.  God  !  sir,  there  were  men  there 
on  their  feet  cheering  their  throats  out  that  had  to 
vote  against  him  afterwards  —  had  to  because  they 
were  there  instructed  —  no  more  free  will  than  a 
checked  trunk!"  The  light  died  out  of  his  face. 
"  Yes,  sir,  a  great  speech  ;  never  a  greater  ever 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  227 

By  Octave  Thanet 

made  at  a  convention  anywhere,  never  so  great  a 
speech,  whoever  made  it :  but  it  did  no  good,  he 
was  n't  nominated,  and  when  we  did  nominate  him 
we  were  cheated  out  of  our  victory.  Well,  we  '11 
do  better  this  day." 

"We  will  that,"  said  the  other  man,  heartily; 
"McKinley  —  " 

"You'll  excuse  me  —  "the  old  man  struck  in 
with  a  deprecating  air,  yet  under  the  apology  some 
thing  fiercely  eager  and  anxious  that  glued  the  hearer's 
eyes  to  his  quivering  old  face  —  "  you  '11  excuse  me. 
I  —  I  am  a  considerable  of  an  invalid  and  I  don't 
keep  the  run  of  things  as  I  used  to.  You  see  I  live 
with  my  daughter,  and  you  know  how  women  folks 
are,  fretting  lest  things  should  make  you  sick,  and 
my  girl  she  worries  so,  me  reading  the  papers.  Fact 
is  I  got  a  shock  once,  an  awful  shock,"  he  shivered 
involuntarily  and  his  dim  eyes  clouded,  "and  it 
worried  her  seeing  me  read.  Hadn't  ought  to;  it 
don't  worry  Jenny  here,  who  often  gets  me  a  paper, 
quiet  like  ;  but  you  know  how  it  is  with  women  — 
it 's  easier  giving  them  their  head  a  little  —  and  so  I 
don't  see  many  papers,  and  I  kinder  dropped  off. 
It  seems  queer,  but  I  don't  exactly  sense  it  about 


228  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

The  Old  Partisan 

this  McKinley.  Is  he  running  against  Elaine  or  jest 
for  vice?" 

The  girl,  under  some  feminine  pretext  of  dropping 
and  reaching  for  her  handkerchief,  threw  upward  a 
glance  of  appeal  at  the  interlocutor.  Hurriedly  she 
stepped  into  the  conversation.  "  My  grandfather 
read  a  false  report  about  —  about  Mr.  Elaine's  sick 
ness,  and  he  was  not  well  at  the  time  and  it  brought 
on  a  bad  attack.'* 

"I  understand,"  said  the  listener,  with  a  grave 
nod  of  his  head  and  movement  of  his  eyes  in  the 
girl's  direction. 

"  But  about  McKinley  ? ' '  the  old  man  persisted. 

"He's  for  vice-president,"  the  girl  announced, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  hesitating  man  from  Canton. 
I  have  often  admired  the  intrepid  fashion  in  which  a 
woman  will  put  her  conscience  at  a  moral  hedge, 
while  a  man  of  no  finer  spiritual  fibre  will  be  strain 
ing  his  eyes  to  find  a  hole  through  which  he  can 
crawl. 

"  McKinley  is  not  opposed  to  Elaine,  is  he  ? "  she 
asked  the  man. 

"The  Republican  party  has  no  name  that  is  more 
loved  than  that  of  James  G.  Elaine,"  said  the  man, 
gravely. 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  229 

By  Octave  Thanet 

"That 's  so,  that 's  so  !  "  the  old  partisan  assented 
eagerly  ;  "  to  my  mind  he  's  the  logical  candidate." 

The  Canton  man  nodded,  and  asked  if  he  had  ever 
seen  Elaine. 

"  Once,  only  once.  I  was  on  a  delegation  sent 
to  wait  on  him  and  ask  him  to  our  town  to  speak  — 
he  was  in  Cincinnati.  I  held  out  my  hand  when 
my  turn  came,  and  the  chairman  nearly  knocked  the 
breath  out  of  me  by  saying,  '  Here  's  the  man  gave 
more  to  our  campaign  fund  and  worked  harder  than 
any  man  in  the  county,  and  we  all  worked  hard  for 
you,  too.'  Well,  Mr.  Elaine  looked  at  me.  You 
know  the  intent  way  he  looks.  He  has  the  most 
wonderful  eyes  ;  look  right  at  you  and  seem  to  bore 
into  you  like  a  gimlet.  I  felt  as  if  he  was  looking 
right  down  into  my  soul,  and  I  tell  you  I  was  glad, 
for  I  choked  up  so  I  couldn't  find  a  word,  not  a 
word,  and  I  was  ready  and  fluent  enough  in  those 
days,  too,  I  can  tell  you  ;  but  I  stood  there  filling 
up,  and  squeezed  his  hand  and  gulped  and  got  red, 
like  a  fool.  But  he  understood.  '  I  have  heard  of 
your  loyalty  to  Republican  principles,  Mr.  Painter,' 
says  he,  in  that  beautiful  voice  of  his  that  was  like  a 
violin  ;  and  I  burst  in  —  I  could  n't  help  it  —  'It 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 


The  Old  Partisan 


ain't  loyalty  to  Republican  principles,  it's  to  you.' 
I  said  that  right  out.  And  he  smiled,  and  said  he, 
'  Well,  that  '  s  wrong,  but  it  is  n'  t  for  me  to  quarrel 
with  you  there,  Mr.  Painter,'  and  then  they  pushed 
me  along  :  but  twice  while  the  talk  was  going  on  I 
saw  him  look  my  way  and  caught  his  eye,  and  he 
smiled,  and  when  we  were  all  shaking  hands  for 
good-bye  he  shook  hands  with  a  good  firm  grip,  and 
said  he,  '  Good-bye,  Mr.  Painter  ;  1  hope  we  shall 
meet  again.'  " 

The  old  man  drew  a  long  sigh.  "Those  few 
moments  paid  for  everything,"  he  said.  "I've 
never  seen  him  since.  I  've  been  sick  and  lost  money. 
I  ain't  the  man  I  was.  I  never  shall  be  put  on  any 
delegation  again,  or  be  sent  to  any  convention  ;  but 
I  thought  if  I  could  only  go  once  more  to  a  Repub 
lican  convention  and  hear  them  holler  for  Elaine, 
and  holler  once  more  myself,  I  'd  be  willinger  to 
die.  And  I  told  Tom  Hale  that,  and  he  and  Jenny 
raised  the  money.  Yes,  Jenny,  I  'm  going  to  tell 
—  he  and  Jenny  put  off  being  married  a  bit  so  's  I 
could  go,  and  go  on  plenty  of  money.  Jenny,  she 
worked  a  month  longer  to  have  plenty,  and  Tom,  he 
slipped  ten  dollars  into  my  hand  unbeknown  to  her, 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  231 

By  Octave  Thanet 

jest  as  we  were  going,  so  I  'd  always  have  a  dime  to 
give  the  waiter  or  the  porter.  I  was  never  one  of 
these  hayseed  farmers  too  stingy  to  give  a  colored  boy 
a  dime  when  he  'd  done  his  best.  I  didn't  need  no 
money  for  badges  ;  I  got  my  old  badges  —  see  !  " 

He  pushed  out  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  covered  with 
those  old-fashioned  frayed  bits  of  tinsel  and  ribbon, 
smiling  confidently.  The  girl  had  flushed  crimson 
to  the  rim  of  her  white  collar ;  but  there  was  not  a 
trace  of  petulance  in  her  air  ;  and,  all  at  once  look 
ing  at  him,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Tom's  an  awful  good  fellow,"  he  said,  "an 
awful  good  fellow." 

"I  'm  sure  of  that,"  said  the  Canton  man,  with 
the  frank  American  friendliness,  making  a  little  bow  in 
Miss  Jenny's  direction  ;  "  but  see  here,  Mr.  Painter, 
do  you  come  from  Izard  ?  Are  you  the  man  that 
saved  the  county  for  the  Republicans,  by  mortgag 
ing  his  farm  and  then  going  on  a  house  to  house 
canvass  ? ' ' 

"That's  me,"  the  old  man  acquiesced,  blushing 
with  pleasure;  "I  didn't  think,  though,  that  it 
was  known  outside  —  ' ' 

"  Things    go    further    than    you    guess.      I  Jm    a 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 


The  Old  Partisan 


newspaper  man,  and  I  can  tell  you  that  I  shall  speak 
of  it  again  in  my  paper.  Well,  I  guess  they  've  got 
through  with  their  mail,  and  the  platform  's  coming 
in." 

Thus  he  brushed  aside  the  old  man's  agitated 
thanks. 

"One  moment,"  said  the  old  man,  "who  — 
who's  going  to  nominate  him?" 

For  the  space  of  an  eyeblink  the  kindly  Canton 
man  looked  embarrassed,  then  he  said,  briskly  : 
"Foraker,  Foraker  of  Ohio  —  he's  the  principal 
one.  That's  he  now,  chairman  of  the  committee 
on  resolutions.  He  's  there,  the  tall  man  with  the 
mustache  —  " 

"  Is  n't  that  elderly  man,  with  the  stoop  shoulders 
and  the  chin  beard  and  caved-in  face,  Teller  ?  "  It 
was  a  man  near  me,  on  the  seat  behind,  who  spoke, 
tapping  the  Canton  man  with  his  fan,  to  attract  atten 
tion  ;  already  the  pitiful  concerns  of  the  old  man 
who  was  "a  little  off"  (as  I  had  heard  some  one 
on  the  seat  whisper)  were  sucked  out  of  notice  in 
the  whirlpool  of  the  approaching  political  storm. 

"  Yes,  that  's  Teller,"  answered  the  Canton  man, 
his  mouth  straightening  and  growing  thin. 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  233 

By  Octave  Thanet 

"Is  it  to  be  a  bolt?" 

The  Canton  man  nodded,  at  which  the  other 
whistled  and  communicated  the  information  to  his 
neighbors,  one  of  whom  remarked,  "  Let  'em  bolt 
and  be  d — !*'  A  subtle  excitement  seemed  to 
communicate  its  vibrations  to  all  the  gallery.  Per 
haps  I  should  except  the  old  partisan  ;  he  questioned 
the  girl  in  a  whisper,  and  then,  seeming  to  be  satis 
fied,  watched  the  strange  scene  that  ensued  with  an 
expression  of  patient  weariness.  The  girl  explained 
parts  of  the  platform  to  him  and  he  assented  ;  it  was 
good  Republican  doctrine,  he  said,  but  what  did 
they  mean  with  all  this  talk  against  the  money ; 
were  they  having  trouble  with  the  mining  States 
again  ?  The  Canton  man  stopped  to  explain  —  he 
certainly  was  good-humored. 

During  the  next  twenty  minutes,  filled  as  they 
were  with  savage  emotion,  while  the  galleries,  like 
the  floor,  were  on  their  chairs  yelling,  cheering,  bran 
dishing  flags  and  fists  and  fans  and  pampas  plumes  of 
red,  white,  and  blue  at  the  little  band  of  silver  men 
who  marched  through  the  ranks  of  their  former  com 
rades,  he  stood,  he  waved  his  fan  in  his  feeble  old 
hand,  but  he  did  not  shout.  "You  must  excuse 


234  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

The  Old  Partisan 

me,"  said  he,  "I'm  all  right  on  the  money  ques 
tion,  but  I  'm  saving  my  voice  to  shout  for  him  !  " 

"That's  right,"  said  the  Canton  man;  but  he 
took  occasion  to  cast  a  backward  glance  which  I 
met,  and  it  said  as  plainly  as  a  glance  can  speak,  "  I 
wish  I  were  out  of  this  !  " 

Meanwhile,  with  an  absent  but  happy  smile,  the 
old  Elaine  man  was  beating  time  to  the  vast  waves 
of  sound  that  rose  and  swelled  above  the  band,  above 
the  cheering,  above  the  cries  of  anger  and  scorn,  the 
tremendous  chorus  that  had  stiffened  men's  hearts  as 
they  marched  to  death  and  rung  through  streets 
filled  with  armies  and  thrilled  the  waiting  hearts  at 
home  :  — 

"  Three  cheers  for  the  red,  white,  and  blue! 
Three  cheers  for  the  red,  white,  and  blue ! 

The  army  and  navy  forever,  three  cheers  for  the 
red,  white,  and  blue!  " 

But  when  the  chairman  had  stilled  the  tumult  and 
made  his  grim  comment,  "There  appear  to  be 
enough  delegates  left  to  transact  business,"  the  old 
partisan  cast  his  eyes  down  to  the  floor  with  a 
chuckle.  "I  can't  see  the  hole  they  made,  it's  so 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  235 

By  Octave  Thanet 

small.  Say,  ain't  he  a  magnificent  chairman  ;  you 
can  hear  every  word  he  says !  " 

"Bully  chairman,"  said  a  cheerful  "rooter"  in 
the  rear,  who  had  enjoyed  the  episode  more  than 
words  can  say,  and  had  cheered  the  passing  of  Silver 
with  such  choice  quotations  from  popular  songs  as 
"  Good-bye,  my  lover,  good-bye,"  and  "Just  tell 
them  that  you  saw  me,"  and  plainly  felt  that  he,  too, 
had  adorned  the  moment.  "  I  nearly  missed  com 
ing  this  morning,  and  I  would  n't  have  missed  it  for 
a  tenner  ;  they  're  going  to  nominate  now." 

The  old  man  caught  his  breath  ;  then  he  smiled. 
"I  '11  help  you  shout  pretty  soon,"  said  he,  while 
he  sat  down  very  carefully. 

The  "  rooter,"  a  good-looking  young  fellow  with 
a  Reed  button  and  three  or  four  gaudy  badges  decking 
his  crash  coat,  nodded  and  tapped  his  temple 
furtively,  still  retaining  his  expression  of  radi 
ant  good-nature.  The  Canton  man  nodded  and 
frowned. 

I  felt  that  the  Canton  man  need  not  be  afraid. 
Somehow  we  were  all  tacitly  taking  care  that  this 
poor,  bewildered  soul  should  not  have  its  little  dream 
of  loyal,  unselfish  satisfaction  dispelled. 


236  CHAP-BOOK   STORIES 

The  Old  Partisan 

"Ah,  my  countrymen,"  I  thought,  "you  do  a 
hundred  crazy  things,  you  crush  les  convenances 
under  foot,  you  can  be  fooled  by  frantic  visionaries 
—  but  how  I  love  you  !  " 

It  was  Baldwin  of  Iowa  that  made  the  first  speech. 
He  was  one  of  the  very  few  men  —  I  had  almost 
said  of  the  two  men  —  that  we  in  the  galleries  had  the 
pleasure  of  hearing  ;  and  we  could  hear  every  word. 

He  began  with  a  glowing  tribute  to  Elaine.  At 
the  first  sentence,  our  old  man  flung  his  gray  head  in 
the  air  with  the  gesture  of  the  war  horse  when  he 
catches  the  first,  far-off  scream  of  the  trumpet.  He 
leaned  forward,  his  features  twitching,  his  eyes 
burning  ;  the  fan  dropped  out  of  his  limp  hand  ; 
his  fingers,  rapping  his  palm,  clenched  and  loosened 
themselves  unconsciously  in  an  overpowering  agita 
tion.  His  face  was  white  as  marble,  with  ominous 
blue  shadows ;  but  every  muscle  was  astrain  ;  his 
chest  expanded  ;  his  shoulders  drew  back  ;  his  mouth 
was  as  strong  and  firm  as  a  young  man.  For  a 
second  we  could  see  what  he  had  been  at  his  prime. 

Then  the  orator's  climax  came,  and  the  name  — 
the  magic  name  that  was  its  own  campaign  cry  in 
itself. 


CHAP-BOOK   STORIES  237 

By  Octave  Thanet 

The  old  partisan  leaped  to  his  feet ;  he  waved  his 
hands  above  his  head  ;  wild,  strange,  in  his  white 
flame  of  excitement.  He  shouted ;  and  we  all 
shouted  with  him,  the  McKinley  man  and  the  Reed 
man  vying  with  each  other  (I  here  offer  my  testi 
mony  to  the  scope  and  quality  of  that  young  Reed 
man's  voice),  and  the  air  rang  about  us :  "  Elaine  ! 
Elaine!  James  G.  Elaine!"  He  shrieked  the  name 
again  and  again,  goading  into' life  the  waning  applause. 
Then  in  an  instant  his  will  snapped  under  the  strain  ; 
his  gray  beard  tilted  in  the  air  ;  his  gray  head  went 
back  on  his  neck. 

The  Canton  man  and  I  caught  him  in  time  to  ease 
the  fall.  We  were  helped  to  pull  him  into  the  aisle. 
There  were  four  of  us  by  this  time,  his  grand 
daughter  and  the  Reed  "rooter,"  besides  the  Canton 
man  and  myself. 

We  carried  him  into  the  wide  passageway  that  led 
to  the  seats.  The  Reed  young  man  ran  for  water, 
and,  finding  none,  quickly  returned  with  a  glass  of 
lemonade  (he  was  a  young  fellow  ready  in  shifts), 
and  with  it  we  bathed  the  old  man's  face. 

Presently  he  came  back,  by  degrees,  to  the  world ; 
he  was  not  conscious,  but  we  could  see  that  he  was 
not  going  to  die. 


z38  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

The  Old  Partisan 

"  He  '11  be  all  right  in  no  time,"  declared  the 
Reed  man.  "  You  had  better  go  back  and  get  your 
seats,  and  keep  mine  !  " 

I  assured  both  men  that  I  could  not  return  for 
more  than  a  short  time,  having  an  engagement  for 
luncheon. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  the  Reed  man,  turning  to 
the  Canton  man,  "  I  ain't  shouting  when  Foraker 
comes ;  you  are.  You  go  back  and  keep  my  seat  ; 
I  '11  come  in  later  on  Hobart." 

So  the  kindly  Canton  man  returned  to  the  conven 
tion  for  which  he  was  longing,  and  we  remained  in 
our  little  corner  by  the  window,  the  young  girl  fan 
ning  the  old  man,  and  the  young  man  on  the  watch 
for  a  boy  with  water.  He  darted  after  one  ;  and 
then  the  girl  turned  to  me. 

No  one  disturbed  us.  Below,  the  traffic  of  a  great 
city  roared  up  to  us  and  a  brass  band  clanged  merrily. 
The  crowd  hurried  past,  drawn  by  the  tidings  that 
"  the  fight  was  on,"  it  choked  the  outlets  and 
suffocated  the  galleries. 

"  He 's  been  that  way  ever  since  he  read,  sud 
denly,  that  Elaine  was  dead,"  she  said,  lowering 
her  voice  to  keep  it  safe  from  his  failing  ears  ;  "he 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  239 

By  Octave  Thanet 

had  a  kind  of  a  stroke,  and  ever  since  he  's  had  the 
notion  that  Elaine  was  alive  and  was  going  to  be 
nominated,  and  his  heart  was  set  on  going  here. 
Mother  was  afraid  ;  but  when  —  when  he  cried  to 
go,  I  could  not  help  taking  him  —  I  did  n't  know 
but  maybe  it  might  help  him  ;  he  was  such  a  smart 
man  and  such  a  good  man ;  and  he  has  had  trouble 
about  mortgaging  the  farm  ;  and  he  worked  so  hard 
to  get  the  money  back,  so  mother  would  feel  right. 
All  through  the  hot  weather  he  worked,  and  I  guess 
that's  how  it  happened.  You  don't  think  it's 
hurt  him  ?  The  doctor  said  he  might  go.  He  told 

T ,    a    gentleman    friend    of  mine    who    asked 

him." 

"  Oh,  dear,  no,"  said  I ;  "it  has  been  good  for 
him." 

I  asked  for  her  address,  which  fortunately  was 
near,  and  I  offered  her  the  cab  that  was  waiting  for 
me.  I  had  some  ado  to  persuade  her  to  accept  it ; 
but  when  I  pointed  to  her  grandfather's  pale  face  she 
did  accept  it,  thanking  me  in  a  simple  but  touching 
way,  and,  of  course,  begging  me  to  visit  her  at  Izard, 
Ohio. 

All  this  while  we  had  been  sedulously  fanning  the 


240  CHAP-BOOK    STORIES 

The  Old  Partisan 

old  man,  who  would  occasionally  open  his  eyes  for 
a  second,  but  gave  no  other  sign  of  returning 
consciousness. 

The  young  Reed  man  came  back  with  the  water. 
He  was  bathing  the  old  man's  forehead  in  a  very  skil 
ful  and  careful  way,  using  my  handkerchief,  when  an 
uproar  of  cheering  shook  the  very  floor  under  us  and 
the  rafters  overhead. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "   the  old  man  inquired,  feebly. 

"  Foraker  !  Foraker  !  "   bellowed  the  crowd. 

"  He  's  nominated  him ! ' '  muttered  the  old  man  ; 
but  this  time  he  did  not  attempt  to  rise.  With  a 
smile  of  great  content  he  leaned  against  his  grand 
daughter's  strong  young  frame  and  listened,  while  the 
cheers  swelled  into  a  deafening  din,  an  immeasurable 
tumult  of  sound,  out  of  which  a  few  strong  voices 
shaped  the  chorus  of  the  Battle  Cry  of  Freedom,  to 
be  caught  up  by  fifteen  thousand  throats  and  pealed 
through  the  walls  far  down  the  city  streets  to  the  vast 
crowd  without. 

The  young  Reed  "boomer,"  carried  away  by  the 
moment,  flung  his  free  hand  above  his  head  and 
yelled  defiantly  :  "  Three  cheers  for  the  man  from 
Maine!  "  Instantly  he  caught  at  his  wits,  his  color 


CHAP-BOOK    STORIES  241 

By  Octave  Thanet 

turned,  and  he  lifted  an  abashed  face  to  the  young 
girl. 

"But,  really,  you  know,  that  ain't  giving  nothing 
away,"  he  apologized,  plucking  up  heart.  "May  I 
do  it  again  ?  " 

The  old  partisan's  eye  lighted.  "Now  they're 
shouting!  That 's  like  old  times!  Yes,  do  it  again, 
boy  !  Blaine!  Elaine  !  James  G.  Elaine  !  " 

He  let  us  lead  him  to  the  carriage,  the  rapturous 
smile  still  on  his  lips.  The  "rooter"  and  I 
wormed  our  way  through  the  crowd  back  to  the 
seats  which  the  kind  Canton  man  had  kept  for  us. 

We  were  quite  like  old  acquaintances  now  ;  and 
he  turned  to  me  at  once,  "  Was  there  ever  a  poli 
tician  or  a  statesman,  since  Henry  Clay,  loved  so 
well  as  James  G.  Blaine?" 


16 


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moirs"  are  exceptionally  clever. 

GEORGE  ADE. 

ARTIE  ;  a  story  of  the  Streets  and  Town,  with  many 
pictures  by  John  T.  McCutcheon.  i6mo.  $1.25. 
These  sketches,  reprinted  from  the  CHICAGO  RECORD, 
attracted  great  attention  on  their  original  appearance. 
They  have  been  revised  and  rewritten  and  in  their 
present  form  promise  to  make  one  of  the  most  popular 
books  of  the  fall. 


LUCAS  MALET. 

THE  CARISSIMA  ;  a  novel,   by    the   author    of 
"The  Wages  of  Sin."     izmo.     $1.50. 

Few  people  will  have  difficulty  in  remembering  the 
profound  sensation  which  the  publication  of  "The 
Wages  of  Sin"  caused  some  six  years  ago.  Since  that 
time  Lucas  Malet  has  published  no  serious  work,  and 
the  present  volume  therefore,  represents  her  best.  It 
is  a  novel  of  intense  and  continued  interest,  and  will 
claim  a  prominent  place  among  the  books  of  the  season. 


ALSO 

THE  CHAP-BOOK. 

WHAT  IT  STANDS  FOR. 

"The  cleverness  of  this  periodical  has  always  amply  justified  its 
existence  but  the  careless  reader,  who  has  never  taken  it  seriously,  will 
be  surprised  to  find  on  turning  over  the  leaves  of  this  volume  how  very 
much  more  than  merely  clever  it  is.  It  contains  examples  of  some  of 
the  strongest  work  that  is  now  being  done  in  letters.  It  represents  the 
best  tendencies  of  the  younger  writers  of  the  day,  and,  seen  in  bulk, 
even  its  freaks  and  excentricities  are  shown  to  be  representative  of  their 
sort,  and  are  present  in  it  because  they  are  representative,  and  not 
because  they  are  freakish." — ST.  PAUL  GLOBE. 

Price,  10  Cents.     $2.00  A  Year. 

Published  by  HERBERT  S.  STONE  &  CO.,  Chicago. 


Herbert  S.  Stone  &  Company, 

THE   CHAP-BOOK. 

CHICAGO:     The   Caxton  Building. 

LONDON  :    10,  Norfolk  St.,  Strand. 


TELEGRAPHIC  ADDRESSES: 

"  CHApBooic,    CHICAGO." 
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